


Inscrutable

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Dream Sex, Exhibitionism, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Lestrade, Fem!mycroft, Femlock, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Gender or Sex Swap, Masturbation, Maybe too much fluff for a porn challenge., Oral Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism, lots of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-10-26 12:15:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 21,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10786578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Genderwap BBC Sherlock. Friends to Lovers. Sherlock/John. Mycroft/Lestrade.31. Laughter. All's well that ends well for our two couples. Fluff.





	1. Pretending (pre-fem!Mystrade)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from the canon story "The Second Stain" where Holmes says, "The motives of women are so inscrutable..."
> 
> I thought I'd go back to my roots and do a bit of genderwap for Atlin Merrick's May Porn challenge. This isn't not porn, yet. I am just getting warmed up. Stay tuned! Things will get much kinkier.

“She’s pretending,” said Sherlock.

“What?!” cried John.

Lestrade snorted.

“Mycroft’s indifference, Detective Inspector, is artificial. She’s actually quite smitten.”

Lestrade and John frowned.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” cried Sherlock. She tapped the screen of her mobile. “Make some unequivocally romantic gesture, like, I don’t know, cake?” She pivoted toward John and with a raised eyebrow.

John gave a confused shrug, then nodded.

Sherlock’s eyes flew back to her mobile. “Today, now, she’s still in her office. Go and see for yourself. Come on, John. Case closed. Chinese?”

* * *

“Detective Inspector, how may I help you? I trust Sherlock behaved with her usual aplomb this evening.”

“I brought you a gift,” said Lestrade. She set a box wrapped in string on the desk before Mycroft.

“Detective Inspector, I fear that you have wasted your resources unnecessarily, I am on a strict diet.” Mycroft untied the parcel. The sides of the box fell apart.

“It’s flourless,” said Lestrade.

The room filled with the unmistakable, undiluted aroma of chocolate upon chocolate.

“Oh, my,” breathed Mycroft, looking down. “Well, that is certainly a lovely confection, but what is the occasion?”

“Sherlock says you’re smitten. With me. She says your Ice Bitch act is just an act. You’re pretending.”

“Sherlock!”

“Talks a lot, but rarely lies. Are you, Mycroft, pretending?”

Mycroft took a deep breath, then she stood and buttoned her suit jacket. “Detective Inspector—”

Lestrade leaned forward and put her hands on the desk so that she hovered over cake. She looked up, meeting Mycroft’s gaze, and whispered.

“Because we can pretend. We can pretend that I don’t look forward to the rare occasions when our paths cross. We can pretend that I don’t want to get to know you better. We can pretend I don’t want to see your smile—a real smile, not that milquetoast thing you wear when you’re starting a war and traffic’s about to be hellish—and Christ, while we’re pretending, let’s pretend I wouldn’t love to hear you laugh. Let’s pretend I don’t want to watch you eat that cake and enjoy it. Let’s pretend I don’t want to lick that sweetness off your fingers or your thigh or the back of your knee or anywhere else you fancy.”

Mycroft stood perfectly still; the only indication that Lestrade’s words were having any effect at all was the dilating of her pupils, which grew larger, encroaching upon irises that same dark brown as the dessert which lay between them.

Lestrade jammed a hand in her raincoat, then she pressed a tiny candle into the centre of the cake. With the flick of a lighter, the candle glowed.

“Happy Birthday, Mycroft. Enjoy.”

Lestrade savoured the fleeting moment of abject surprise on Mycroft Holmes’s face.

“How—?” stammered Mycroft.

“I’m a detective. Always out of my depth, according to your sister, but then who’s badge is she stealing all the time? Your move, but bear in mind, I don’t pretend. Good night.”

She felt Mycroft’s gaze follow her as she walked the door.

 


	2. Nursing or Lactating (fem!Johnlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock dreams of an experiment gone awry. fem!Johnlock. 
> 
> Lactating kink. For science. It's all a dream (that helps Sherlock solve a case).

John stopped halfway up the stairs.

“Why am I the only one _not_ wearing a gas mask?”

Sherlock barreled towards John and thrust a mask at her chest. John quickly donned it. When she turned, she spied a masked Mrs. Hudson fleeing the premises with a shopping bag-cum-suitcase in hand.

“Sherlock!”

“Don’t inhale, John.”

* * *

“I’m going to die,” moaned John.

“You are not going to die. The effects, if any, will wear off in four to five hours.”

“Sherlock, if I’ve learned anything from our short association, it’s that the size of the danger is directly proportional to the expense of the hotel room which serves as our temporary exile whilst the flat is being decontaminated. We are in the penthouse! Now for the last time, tell me what you were working on!”

“Glands, hormones.”

“Jesus Christ,” said John, flopping onto the bed. “I’m going to die, painfully.”

“Here, _Agatha Poppyseed and the Mystery of the_ _Aubergine Prawn_.”

John stared at the book, its tasseled bookmark still dangling from the middle of the second chapter, the book that Sherlock had called ‘mindless drivel’ and worse.

“Christ, I’m going to die.”

* * *

“Sherlock! What glands? What hormones? Wait, let me guess!” shouted John, gesturing to her chest.

Sherlock looked pained, but not surprised.

“I’ve got Alice in Wonderland breasts!” cried John. “They’re huge! They hurt! They’re growing before my very eyes!”

That last was evident.

“Four to five hours, John.”

“Before I kill you? Before I kill me? Before I explode?!”

John ran into the loo and slammed the door.

Sherlock followed and placed a palm at the height of John’s head on the door. “I’m sorry, John.”

“Oh, Christ! Oh, Christ! Oh, Christ!” shrieked John.

“John?”

“I’m leaking!”

* * *

“What?”

“A breast pump, hospital grade and some,” Sherlock’s lips twisted awkwardly, “garments and shields, if you’ll just open the door.”

“That was quick.”

“Yes, well.”

* * *

“I’m a cow!” cried John over the _chug-chug_ of the pump. “An actual member of the bovine family hooked up a bloody milking machine.”

Sherlock sat on the floor, her back against the loo door. “But is it helping?”

“Yeah,” said John wearily. “It feels better. Still weird, but it doesn’t hurt now. You know, I suppose when I was younger I wanted breasts like these, for a time, but now, no, thank you. I liked myself the way I was.”

Sherlock sighed and dropped her head. “So did I.”

“I’m even bigger than you.” John snorted.

When the door finally opened, Sherlock bit back a sigh.

“Three to four hours, John.”

“Yeah.” John’s eyes softened. “I suppose you want to examine me or something. For science or whatever. Might as well get some data, something useful out of this nightmare. Here’s the milk.” She held out two bottles.

Sherlock’s eyes lit for an instant, then darkened. “I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

John leveled a hard stare at her. “Too. Late.”

* * *

They giggled.

“I think that’s enough measurement,” said Sherlock with an awkward smile.

“You think?”’ teased John. “You know I considered taking these breasts for a spin outside, you know, get a few stares, maybe a lewd remark, but I like your ogling much better.”

Sherlock’s cheeks turned pink. “I’m not ogling, I’m observing.”

“Oh, right,” said John, with a snort.

Sherlock moved to the centre of the sitting area and looked around. “Telly?”

* * *

John stared at the screen. “You’re observing pretty hard there, aren’t you?”

“Sorry.”

“They’re filling again. There’s a tightness, then a kind of weird pinch.”

“Right. The pump—“

Sherlock glanced toward the loo, then back at John’s chest. She swallowed.

“Sherlock,” said John, pulling her vest over her head, “if I asked…would you…?”

“Oh, God, yes.”

John unfastened the clasp on the left strap of the bra, and Sherlock bent her head and latched at once.

“Fuck!” John breathed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! Don’t stop, Sherlock! Please, it so much better than…”

Sherlock pulled off. “Fuck,” she echoed in John’s same low, strained tone. “John, John. I like this far more than I should.”

“Do the other side, please!” said John fiddling with the clasp on the right side. “Shit, this bloody—“

Sherlock pushed the bra up and over John’s head and threw it to the floor.

“Yeah,” growled John as she pushed her wet nipple between Sherlock’s lips. “We won’t be needing that anymore.”

* * *

“John!”

“Oh, God, Sherlock. It’s so good. I want to, I mean, can we fuck a bit? Just rut against you.”

“John!” The alarm in Sherlock’s cry made John freeze and open her eyes and look down.

“Oh, my God,” said John.

They both stared at Sherlock’s chest as it inflated. Then they looked at each other.

“The milk,” they said in unison.

“Oh, Sherlock, can I…?” asked John.

“Yes!” cried Sherlock tearing off her blouse and bra. “On the bed. I can turn upside down and then you can…while I…and I can…while you—.”

John laughed. “I wonder what’s the breast equivalent of a 69? An 88?”

* * *

Nipples and moans and milk and whimpers.

And drinking and rutting and fingering and riding and fucking and fucking and fucking while streams of milk decorated—

* * *

 

“John!”

“Sherlock, twenty minutes of sleep is not enough,” said John with a cup of tea in hand. “You’ve been at that case for three days.”

Sherlock waved her hands. “Pituitary adenoma. Might have messed with prolactin levels and with the dopamine levels—”

“Christ,” said John, setting the tea on the table. “She would’ve been lactating without having given birth!”

“John, we’ve got her!” Sherlock lunged off the sofa, staggering towards the hook where her coat hung, then she stopped, mid-arc, and pivoted. She grabbed John by the waist and bent and planted two kisses to the left and right sides of John’s chest atop the woolly jumper.

“And bless you and your very small, most perfect breasts!”

“Sherlock, that is not on!”

But Sherlock was already tumbling down the stairs, crying, “Come on John, the game is on!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like femlock nursing kink, I've written 4 fics. I have also written a bit of Omegaverse lactation kink (both original John and fem!John), so scroll through my works and enjoy! I would not even know about or write nursing kink if it weren't for an Atlin Merrick fic!


	3. Unusual sex toy (fem!John. Masturbation. Rating: Teen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John _loves_ tea. Masturbation. Rating: teen.

Sherlock dropped her mobile in her coat pocket and smirked.

“Molly confirmed it?” asked John.

“Of course. It was the deer-antler tea that caused the botulism that caused Robinson’s death, and his so-called friend and business partner Cook has made a full confession. He persuaded Robinson to drink the tea under the superstitious belief that it would guarantee that he would ‘bag the big one’ and thus be named Sportsman of the Year for the lodge. Their co-owned and offensively-named Stags & Slags Expeditions was in trouble, financial woes, blah, blah. Next train leaves in half an hour. If we hurry—“

“Let’s hurry. This place is frightful,” said John, looking from the glassy-eyed wildebeest head mounted on the wall to her left to the glassy-eyed kudu head mounted on the wall to her right.

* * *

“But you’re wrong, Sherlock,” said John as the train pulled out of the station.

“About?”

“It’s not a tea. Ground deer antler in hot water is an infusion. Completely unrelated to cured leaves of the _Camellia sinensis_.”

Sherlock’s lips curled in a gentle smile. Her grey eyes softened. “Why, John Watson, you’re a tea snob!”

“I like tea,” said John, sticking out her chin and addressing the landscape beyond the train window. “Okay.” She tilted her head. “I _love_ tea, and I shan’t see it coupled with some abominable slaughter-majestic-animals-for-fun murder brew. Just like they really shouldn’t call anything ‘tea’ that smells like my dead Gran’s knicker drawer.”

Sherlock laughed. “Noted. The agony of the leaves—”

John gave a theatrical shudder. “—is my own little death, thank you very much.”

* * *

“Is this yours, Sherlock?”

“What? No.”

“It’s addressed to ‘resident.’” John hummed. “A catalogue of tea. In French. Far more tempting bedtime reading than you, my dear friend.” She dropped _Agatha Poppyseed and the Mystery of the Aubergine Prawn_ onto the seat of the armchair and headed for the stairs. “G’night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, John.”

Sherlock kept her eyes glued to the microscope eyepiece and her smile to herself.

* * *

“Jesus Christ, a 1988 Pu-erh, seventy quid for three ounces and I bet it still tastes like dragon piss. Imperial oolong, grand oolong, fancy oolong, yes, we like our oolong, don’t we? Lapsang sochoung, naturally. Oh, Christ, am I?”

John looked down.                                                                                                                                 

Yes, her hips were grinding into the mattress.

She laughed.

“Who does this? Me, apparently.”

She reached for a pillow and shoved it underneath her hips.

“The matcha, of course, good. The whites, organic, too. Hmm. Now, we’re getting somewhere. Darjeeling. Spring. First flush, yes. Second flush, yes, yes. Fuck. Ceylon. Special Finest Tippy Golden Flowery Orange Peko-o-oh!”

John let the catalogue slip to the floor. She pressed her face into the bedding and sighed.

“Remember this, Watson. People who live in tea-catalogue-masturbating houses shouldn’t really throw stones at people who keep eyeballs in the fridge.”

* * *

“Have you been here all night, Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

John huffed. “Tea?”

“Just tea for me, thanks,” said Sherlock.

“Christ,” said John, shuffling to the fridge. “Any milk? Oh, hello, Mister Eyeballs, we meet again.”

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“If I were a tea, what kind of tea would I be?”

“Is too bloody early for riddles, Sherlock?! Or jokes! Wait, do you make jokes?”

“No,” said Sherlock coolly. “It’s a question.”

John stared at her, then opened the door to the tea cupboard and stared at the boxes and tins, then stared back at Sherlock. “You want a real answer?”

Sherlock huffed. “Yes! Otherwise I would go on the internet and take one of those idiotic quizzes you’re so fond of.”

“Hey, can we make a household rule no personal insults until John’s had her first cuppa?” John looked back at the cupboard. “What blend, you mean?”

“Possibly. I don’t know.”

“I would have to think about it.”

“Floral? Herbal?”

“Christ, no!”

Sherlock shrugged.

“I’ll think about it and let you know,” said John, frowning. “Christ, I might to have to look at that catalogue again.”

Sherlock nodded. “Whenever. Just curious.”

John set two mugs on the counter.

“But I will tell you one thing, you are _not_ an herbal tea, Sherlock Holmes,” she said as she turned around and leaned back against the counter. Then once again, before her mind caught up with her body, she was brushing Sherlock’s nest of piled and pinned hair and pressing her lips to the top of her flatmate’s head.

“Oh, Christ, Sherlock. I’m sorry. I’m so, uh—“

“Tea, John.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said John quickly and turned back to the counter.

“And it’s all fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A case of [deer antler tea causing botulism](http://abc7.com/news/deer-antler-tea-linked-w--botulism-case-in-orange-county/1941825/) was in the news recently.
> 
> Apologies for the limited amount of porn in this porn challenge. Will try to remedy that forthwith.


	4. Food (Mycroft & cake. fem!Mystrade. First Kiss. Rating: Teen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft eats cake and thinks about Lestrade. First kiss. Rating: Teen. Continuation from Chapter 1.

If Mycroft had thought for a moment how much she resembled Sherlock as she paced her office, she might have stopped, but she was too distracted by the cake on her desk and the Detective Inspector who had just left to spare a single faculties.

The top of the cake was a perfect circle. It was a smooth, even dark brown, dotted—symmetrically, also—with raspberries and dusted with sugar. The candle, which Lestrade had lit, still burned in the centre. The smell of melting wax darted—like children playing hide-and-seek in a crowd—about the aromatic cloud that enveloped the room.

Chocolate.

Tantalising.

Mycroft might well consider being tormented for eternity by its rich fragrance and like the Greek figure of myth, she was being drawn in two directions, towards the dessert and the woman who’d gifted it to her.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock had discovered Mycroft’s secret, but how?

Mycroft had been careful, even from the beginning, especially around Sherlock. A tell? Mycroft had no tells! That was why she was so good at what she did.

And why now? Why today was a bit obvious, though not really, the Holmes family was prone to sentimental indulgences about anything, least of all birthdays, and she and Sherlock had known and interacted with Lestrade for years. Why—?

“Oh, dear God,” breathed Mycroft. “She’s in love, too.”

Mycroft kicked her chair hard, sending it crashing into the wall.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” she raged. “How did I miss it? She has no tells! And yet—“

The chair ricocheted off the wall and made its slow return to Mycroft’s side. She sat and picked up the fork that had been laced in the string of cake box.

She closed her eyes as she put the first forkful to her lips.

Sweet perfection.

Then her eyes flew open.

“’Wait, she’s in love, too’? That means I am—“

She took another bite.

“Yes, I am in love with this cake,” she looked up at the door where Lestrade had stood, “and the one who brought it.”

Mycroft sighed and picked a raspberry off the top of the cake. It was furry and tart and made her smile—her real smile, she thought, remembering Lestrade’s words.

Would it be the end of the world if she spent some time with someone who, despite all unlikely probability, professed to want to spend some time with her?

Mycroft’s fork returned again and again to the cake as she turned the possibilities over in her mind and the more the chocolate overwhelmed her senses, the less she thought about the danger and the more she thought about Lestrade.

She was still thinking about Lestrade when she heard a noise, far too near to not alarm her.

“Listen, I know I’m supposed to wait a day or a week or a lifetime, but, uh—“

Mycroft closed the distance between them and silenced Lestrade with a chocolate kiss, which she only broke to declare,

“Oh, and Sherlock’s in love with John.”

“What—?” 


	5. Pet play (pre-fem!Johnlock. Sherlock as cat. Rating: Teen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a long case, John helps Sherlock relax. Fluff. pre-fem!Johnlock. Rating: Teen. Sherlock as cat.

“Stop or I’ll shoot!”

“You wouldn’t—!”

“On the sofa! Now!” ordered John in her sternest battlefield voice.

_PSSST!_

Sherlock hissed and shook her head wildly. She glared at John as droplets fell from her nose.

John glared back at Sherlock, then brandished the spray bottle once more.

“Go on. Try me, Sherlock. You’ll get more than a bit of water to the face next time.”

Sherlock hissed again, then threw herself onto the sofa, rolling into the cushions and yanking her blue dressing gown around her lower body in as stroppy a manner as the gesture permitted.

John lifted Sherlock’s feet and eased herself beneath them, settling into one end of the sofa. Then she took up the book that was perched precariously on the sofa arm.

“You’ve just solved what I believe will be one of the most complicated and trying cases of your career,” said John as if it wasn’t the third time she’d said it. “People will be talking about the _Matilda Briggs_ for years. Christ, it’ll probably be in textbooks or on telly.”

“Maybe the science fiction channel.”

John huffed and pointed to the kitchen. “And in the process, you’ve worn yourself to the bone. That cheese sandwich was the first decent meal you’ve had in a week.”

“Body's just transport.”

“And you haven’t slept, either. So, it’s over, case closed, well done. Now, it’s time to sleep!”

“What about you?”

John sighed and rubbed her face. “I’ll sleep when you sleep.”

“You’re not my keeper. Or my mother!”

Their eyes met.

One of John’s eyebrows rose. Her jaw set hard.

Sherlock looked away first, casting a quick glance at the cover of the book in John’s hand. “Shouldn’t be a problem. That soporific drivel you read is the perfect tranqueliser,” she said in a low whine.

“You are such a cat when you’re overwrought, Sherlock!”

“I’m not overwrought!”

“Listen to the rain. Or the hum of the fridge. Or my breathing. Or anything but the cacophony in your own head.”

“Oh, cacophony! Big word! Have you been cheating on that rot with a dictionary!” said Sherlock with a sneer.

John said nothing. She merely exhaled loudly, wearily, then turned her attention to _Agatha Poppyseed and the Mystery of the Aubergine Prawn_.

* * *

John was half-way through the third chapter before she realised that she was doing it.

Rubbing Sherlock’s leg.

Rubbing Sherlock’s bare leg.

Sherlock’s feet were across John’s lap and John had one hand just above Sherlock’s ankle.

The instant the thought dawned, John stopped.

“It doesn’t bother me,” said Sherlock gruffly. “I mean, if you want to, you know, it’s, whatever.”

Sherlock’s voice was thick.

Thick with _sleep_.

If the rain kept up its patter outside on the window pane and if John kept up her caress, maybe, just maybe, the world’s most exhausted consulting detective would finally rest.

* * *

But of course, it was John who nodded off first.

The thud that woke John was probably the book landing on the floor after sliding from her drooping hand. She snuffled and looked ‘round, noting that sometime during the siesta, Sherlock must’ve moved because now her head was pillowed on John’s thigh.

John smiled down at Sherlock and smoothed a hand over her dark brown hair.

One of Sherlock’s eyes opened. Her lips twitched in what John now knew was an amused smile. She butted her head into John’s hand, pushing into the touch.

Like a cat.

John laughed and began to pet Sherlock in earnest.

She petted her and petted her, and as she did, she watched Sherlock’s facial muscles relax, one by one. It was as if Sherlock was softening before her very eyes.

What did Sherlock look like when she slept?

John realised she didn’t know.

But she wanted to.

Then Sherlock made a noise.

A low, soft, vibrating noise.

A purr.

John’s smile spread across her face.

Sherlock sniffed and rolled so that she was facing John’s body.

John did not halt her caress and Sherlock did not falter in her response.

Finally, John asked,

“Are you going to leave a dead bird or mouse on my doorstep?”

“I just did, John: the Giant Rat of Sumatra.”

John laughed. “That wasn’t for me, Sherlock. That was for the Government of Australia.”

Sherlock shook her head, then looked up at John.

John frowned.

Sherlock shrugged.

“I did it to show off. I’m a show-off. And I especially like to show off for you.”

“And that’s why you’re such a good kitty, Sherlock.”


	6. Misunderstanding. (pre-fem!Johnlock. Fluff. 221b)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a sinus infection. 221b. Silly fluff. pre-fem!Johnlock. Rating: Teen

John waved her arms. The sleeves of the Belstaff flapped. “What did you expect?” she snapped. Her words were wrapped in wool, and she barely heard herself over the pounding in her head. “Coat’s too big. So?” She flapped again.

Sherlock’s expression hardened. She flew to John’s armchair and carefully lifted a muddy bundle of twigs and sticks resting in the seat. Then she sank a hand between the cushions and produced John’s mobile.

“What?” protested John. “I did what you said!”

Sherlock tapped.

The pocket of the Belstaff vibrated.

John drew out Sherlock’s mobile.

**Antibiotics. Now. SH**

“I’m fine, Sherlock. Really. Just a cold.”

Sherlock shook her head and tapped angrily.

**The infection in your sinuses has spread to your ears. Treat it. Now. SH**

“I’m fine!” growled John. Then she groaned at the swell of pain.

Her eyelashes hurt. Her hair hurt.

Everything hurt.

She’d love to exchange her head for the one in the fridge.

Sherlock tapped again.

**I SAID ‘BEWARE AND NOTE THE PUFFIN NEST!’ SH**

John frowned.

Sherlock pointed to John’s chair. And the nest.

John’s mouth fell open.

Then she looked down at her nude form draped in black wool.

“I thought you said, ‘go wear my coat and nothing else!”

Sherlock snatched her phone from John and snapped a photo.

“Useless, but quite becoming.”


	7. Clothing/Uniform Kink. (fem!Johnlock & fem!Mystrade. First Dates. Fluff.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock & John go champing (church-camping). Scooby-Doo type fluff. Rating: Teen.

“Sherlock, when you said you were taking me to church I thought you were speaking euphemistically, you know, that you were about to berate me about being slow to grasp something—“

“One hardly need refer to a place of worship for an event that takes place on a near-minute basis, John. Why not call it ‘breathing’?”

John rolled her eyes. “But we’re in an actual church, albeit one that hasn’t been used in the last hundred years, and we’re going to spend the bloody night here!”

“We’re champing.”

“We’re what?”

“Church-camping. A form of recreation designed to relieve people who have a taste for morbid thrills of a portion of their disposable income in support of the preservation of structures of historical and ecclesiastical significance.”

“When you put it like that, who can refuse?”

“Naturally.”

* * *

“This is creepy, Sherlock. We’re alone in a run-down church in the middle of nowhere and there are bats in the belfry. Or what used to be the belfry. I suppose there’s a beauty to it,” John surveyed the crumbled walls and stones overgrown with brambles, “in daylight, but I have a feeling that we’re going to be the first victims of a horror film. Were those rats?”

With a lantern in hand, Sherlock made her way to some steps that led down into a dark hole.

“What a vivid imagination you have, John. Look here’s the crypt!”

“Yeah, you go an investigate, I’ll stay up here with that bats and keep watch, just in case.”

“Come on, John!” cried Sherlock as she disappeared down the steps.

John sighed and rolled her eyes and followed.

* * *

“I think we should sleep here,” said Sherlock.

“In the bloody crypt?!”

“How about right here?” said Sherlock indicating the rectangular stone behind her. “We could share a sleeping bag, you know, for economy and to preserve body heat.” She rolled gracefully onto the stone platform until she was lying lengthwise, facing John, with her upper body propped on one elbow. She unbuttoned her coat with her free hand and then extended that hand towards John, palm up, in invitation.

John stared at her, then smiled. “That coat,” she said.

“I know,” replied Sherlock, grinning. “It’s a very good coat.”

John approached Sherlock slowly, then crawled most ungracefully atop her.

“Sherlock,” John whispered softly as she fingered the lapel of the Belstaff. “Did you lure me to a crypt of an abandoned medieval church just to have a cuddle? Because that has got to win the Mary-Shelly-losing-her-virginity-on-her-mother’s-grave award for modern Gothic eccentricity.”

“Nevertheless, here you are,” said Sherlock as she drew the sides of the Belstaff around John protectively.

John slipped her arms around Sherlock’s waist, but froze when her hand touched something cold.

Metal. Familiar. _Very_ familiar.

“My gun, Sherlock?!”

“John, I lured you to the crypt of an abandoned medieval church to have a cuddle _and_ to catch a serial killer.”

Suddenly, there was the faint sound of an engine.

“And here he comes. Right on time.”

* * *

“A penny for your thoughts,” said Mycroft.

Lestrade blushed and said, “I suppose lying would be—“

“Inadvisable.”

“I was going to say ‘damn stupid,’ but yeah, ‘inadvisable’ works, too. I was thinking how well you wear that suit and how I wish I could wear a suit like that.”

One corner of Mycroft’s mouth twitched.

“I can empathise with the desire to camouflage one’s more conventionally feminine features in the professional arena, especially an arena so heavily polluted with testosterone as police work. For better or worse, I have fewer and less of such features to disguise.”

“Yeah, a sloppy raincoat only hides so much,” grumbled Lestrade. “But I’ll take my style cues from Colombo if it means being taken seriously. ”First proper date. Dinner and a film. No interruptions. I’ve given Sherlock a case, a _very_ old case, that should keep her out of our hair for at least a night.”

“Wonderful, but by my calculations this is our second date.”

“Half a cake and a snog? I suppose.”

“I shall have to try harder,” said Mycroft, leaning closer.

“Christ, how you wear a shirt,” breathed Lestrade.

“I’d prefer to see you wear it tomorrow morning.”

Their lips met.

BEEP!

Buzz!

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“Indeed.”

They stepped apart, each putting a phone to her ear.

Mycroft merely listened.

“Lestrade, this had better be bloody—oh, fuck—where? Now?” She looked at her watch. “Uh, yes, Jesus Christ. How many bodies?”

“Three and counting,” said Mycroft. “And Doctor Watson—“

“Was entombed alive.”

* * *

“She doesn’t need a shock blanket!” roared Sherlock.

“Sherlock, please don’t—“

“You look frightful in orange, John.”

“Sherlock! Oh, that’s nice, actually.”

John smiled as Sherlock draped the Belstaff around her shoulders.

“I’m fine, you know. It was a hellish nightmare, but a mercifully short one. And you got him, Sherlock.”

“ _We_ got him. And a few answers for a few families. The case wasn’t nearly as cold as Lestrade suspected.”

“Nice work.” John rubbed her cheek against the dark wool. “Christ, I like this coat.”

“John, would care, at a later time, of course, to have sexual congress in it, the coat, that is?”

John stared and blinked, then tilted her head and shrugged. “Well, when you put it like that—oh, shit, here comes your sister and Lestrade. I suppose their first date didn’t go according to plan.”

“She should’ve taken her to church. Ours went swimmingly.”


	8. Bodily Fluids (fem!Johnlock & fem!Mystrade)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody sweats. First time. Sherlock/John. Mystrade. Frottage. Oral sex. Rating: Explicit

“Oh, God,” moaned John. “I’m so warm.”

“Should I—?”

“Don’t you dare take off the coat!”

Sherlock chuckled and licked the sweat from John’s temple.

“Sherlock.”

John fumbled with her jeans. They were open and she was straddling Sherlock’s thigh, but her attempts to push them further down her hips only resulted in failure and whines of frustration.

Sherlock’s gloved hands covered her and shoved. Hard.

It was just enough. And it was perfect. And Sherlock’s leather-covered grip on John’s buttocks was new and quite fucking wonderful.

“Yeah, yeah, Christ, the gloves. Just let me rut.” John looked up and their mouths met. John broke the kiss to look down. “Christ, I’m humping your leg like a bitch in heat, not elegant or romantic, but it’s too bloody good to stop.”

“Don’t stop, John.” Sherlock squeezed John’s arse and kissed her again. “I want to watch you come.”

“I’m going to make a mess of your trousers. Fuck.”

"Please do, John."

John began to slam her hips into Sherlock. Then she held the lapel of the Belstaff between clenched teeth and buried her face in Sherlock’s chest. The next was noisy exhales through her nose, muffled moans of Sherlock’s name, and rubbing, rubbing, until there was a spark and then a flame.

John’s whole body tensed as she came.

Then she carefully untwined herself from Sherlock’s leg and melted against her chest. The sides of the Belstaff came ‘round her.

Sherlock nuzzled the top of John’s head, wiped the sweat from her own brow with a gloved hand, and whispered,

“Good?”

John raised her head. They kissed softly again and again, lips parting for a breath, then joining again. John looked at Sherlock through half-lidded eyes. “Sherlock.” She wanted to tell her she loved her, but it was so bloody predictable, conventional, almost trite, so she just said,

“Sherlock.”

“John, there’s nothing ordinary about you, except perhaps that jumper, but even it borders on the hideous, so not really ordinary.”

And that, John realised, was Sherlock saying ‘I love you, too.’

“Bit of a sick weirdo, aren’t I?” said John, looking around. “I mean I don’t suppose most people would return to the scene of a crime where they’d been put in a tomb by a serial killer the night before and say, ‘hey, let’s have a quick fuck.’”

“I believe it wins, what did you call it, the Mary-Shelly-losing-her-virginity-on-her-mother’s-grave award for modern Gothic eccentricity?”

John laughed. “And yet, here you are!”

Sherlock laughed, too. “Third surprise of the night. First, that I’d forgot my lantern.”

“Yeah.”

“I was a bit distracted last night. And it was a gift from my Gran, so…”

“Sentiment?”

“Precisely.”

“I want to hear about this Gran.”

“Second surprise was that the police hadn’t collected it in their sweep of the scene and it was still here. Third, of course, was the aphrodisiacal qualities of this locale on my utterly fuckable—“

“Christ, when you swear, Sherlock.”

“—flatmate. Noted, by the way.”

“Do you want—?” John dropped her hands to Sherlock’s arse.

_“HEY, WHAT ARE YOU TWO DOING?!”_

* * *

 

“Hey,” said Lestrade, leaning against the door with a grin.

“Forgive me, I seemed to have caught you at an inopportune moment.”

“Depends on what you’re here for.” She grabbed Mycroft by the tie and dragged her inside.

“I was inquiring as to your well-being,” said Mycroft.

“Does that inquiry include a shag?”

“It could. In fact,” said Mycroft, staring as Lestrade licked her lips and parted the side of her dressing gown, “I think it must.”

* * *

“Fuck,” said Mycroft.

“Christ, when you swear.” Lestrade opened her eyes and looked back over her shoulder, noting Mycroft’s wet brow. “I believe I’m making the Ice Bitch melt,” she teased.

“Who wouldn’t?” said Mycroft weakly. She stood behind Lestrade, her cupped hands squeezing and fondling Lestrade’s breasts as she kissed her neck.

“I’ll never believe you didn’t time your visit to me getting out of the shower.”

“Luck,” said Mycroft, with no little wonder in her voice. She pushed the dressing gown off Lestrade’s shoulders and the rose silk fell to the floor.

“It’s been a long, long day, Mycroft. I want a fuck and a nap, in that order.”

“I’m happy to provide the former and afford the latter.”

Lestrade led her to the bedroom.

“Are you—?”

“Removing my jacket and waistcoat.”

“Oh, dear God!” said Lestrade with mock horror as she leaned back on the bed, propped up of her elbows. “England might fall.” She licked her lips and gave a long wolf whistle when Mycroft rolled up her shirt sleeves.

“Planning to go to work, Ms. Holmes?”

“Duty calls,” said Mycroft. “Now spread those gorgeous legs and let me see that pretty cunt I’ll be fucking.”

Lestrade opened her legs, bent her knees and reached down with one hand to spread her folds.

Mycroft crawled toward her with a predatory glean in her eye.

“Don’t worry, my dear, you’re in wicked hands and an even more wicked tongue.”

Lestrade shuddered and leaned back onto the bed.

* * *

“OH, FUCK!”

Lestrade’s hands were in Mycroft’s hair; her legs were curled over Mycroft’s shoulders.

Mycroft stopped her ministrations. Lestrade whined. Mycroft bit the inside of her thigh and asked “How?”

Lestrade swallowed and wiped the sweat from her forehead and said,

“Ride you?”

They rolled until Lestrade’s legs were slotted beside Mycroft’s upper body. She lowered herself slowly to Mycroft’s mouth.

“Your tongue, Mycroft.”

Mycroft hummed.

“Yeah, please, oh, My, just a little bit more, so close, fuck, yes!”

Lestrade threw herself forward.

Then she heard it, and the sweet afterglow vanished.

“My phone.”

She glanced at Mycroft, who wiped her face with a hand and blinked.

There was a buzz.

Lestrade hurried to the other room.

“Fuck! Four missed calls, and the last one is from the Chief Inspector. Shit!”

“Indeed,” said Mycroft from the bedroom as she took a deep breath and held her own mobile to her ear. “What in the hell has my sister done now?”


	9. Hot or Cold (fem!Johnlock & fem!Mystrade. H/C. Rating: Teen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock & John get caught contaminating a crime scene, Lestrade's in hot water. H/C. Rating: Teen.

The lift doors sprang apart.

Mycroft took in the whole floorplan in a glance, but her attention fixed on the glass-wall office in the rear.

Chief Inspector Gregson was purple with rage. Lestrade was stoic, the eyes that had teased and enthralled Mycroft less than an hour earlier were dark and vacant.

Mycroft felt the ice in her veins grow colder.

Sherlock and John stood beside Lestrade. Sherlock’s expression was livid, John’s mortified.

As soon as Sherlock’s mouth opened, John shoved a handkerchief in it. Gregson pointed to the door. John pushed Sherlock out of the room and the two strode swiftly toward the lift and Mycroft.

As the office door swung shut, Mycroft—and indeed the whole floor—heard Gregson’s baritone.

Mycroft’s grip on her umbrella tightened until her knuckles were white. She was one moment away from storming the office and kicking in the Chief Inspector’s teeth, but in that moment, Lestrade turned her head, and her eyes met Mycroft’s through glass and across distance.

She paled.

No, not your fault. Please don’t.

Mycroft futilely tried to send her message through the ether, but Lestrade’s countenance only grew more lifeless.

Mycroft could not hear Gregson, but she read his lips.

What a bloody prick.

Suddenly a hand was on Mycroft’s chest.

“Come, sister mine.”

Mycroft allowed Sherlock to push her back into the lift.

John exploded as soon as the lift doors closed.

“I’ve been dressed down by commanding officers, Sherlock, plenty. Nobody likes it. But what he’s doing to her is filthy; it’s abuse and it’s wrong. And most of all, it’s not her fault. It’s _my_ fault for not keeping it in my fucking pants. She’s a good cop and if this costs her—.”

“It won’t,” said Sherlock. She pivoted and looked at Mycroft, who nodded.

 _That_ would not happen.

“John.”

Sherlock’s hand hovered above John’s shoulder. John flinched and took a step away from Sherlock.

John’s gestures were tiny, but they cut Mycroft’s throat like a garroting and she held her breath as Sherlock dropped her arm by her side, then drew out her mobile.

Mycroft wasn’t fooled for an instant by her sister’s performance. She saw Sherlock’s fingers tremble as she pantomimed bored indifference.

Mycroft hid her shudder in a cough and an unnecessary shake of her umbrella.

No, no, no.

How could Sherlock have been so reckless?!

She spotted the lantern in Sherlock’s hand.

Really? All for that bloody old lamp!

“Fornicating at a crime scene is inadvisable,” she said with only a fraction of the anger that she felt.

Sherlock and John both turned towards her, and the cold loathing in both expressions silenced any further speech.

* * *

Sherlock sauntered in Mycroft’s office, plopped down in a chair, and propped her feet up on Mycroft’s desk.

“Busy,” said Mycroft, without looking up.

“Your tea’s cold.”

“Leave.”

“Your tea’s never cold. You hate cold tea. John hates cold tea.”

“Everybody hates cold tea.”

“She won’t talk to you either.”

“I’m busy. The Detective Inspector is busy.”

“She’s busy pushing paper. The bastard put her on a desk. It’s been a fortnight. _Do_ something.”

Mycroft rubbed her face with her hand. Then she stopped and stared at Sherlock.

“John?”

Sherlock shook her head. “She won’t talk to me. Not like before.” Her voice and Mycroft’s heart broke. “How do I make things right, Mycroft? Like they were?” She stared at Mycroft’s untouched tea.

Mycroft sighed. “You need to talk to her. Sit down and listen and try to understand and make certain she feels heard and ask her what she wants and be willing to compromise—“

“I’ve got it!” cried Sherlock. “I’ll destroy her Gran's tea kettle!”

She raced out the door.

“Or you could destroy her Gran’s tea kettle,” echoed Mycroft as she rolled her eyes. She put the teacup to her lips, sipped, and grimaced.

Sherlock popped her head back in the doorway and said,

“Oh, and it is past time to do something about Gregson, isn’t it?”

* * *

Mycroft put her mobile to her ear and said nothing. She did not trust herself to speak.

“You did this, didn’t you?”

The headline on Mycroft’s screen read: GREGSON IN HOT WATER!

“I don’t know what you’re implying, Detective Inspector. How could a humble civil servant influence the Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard’s choice of spa partners?”

“I wonder. Well, he’s on suspension and I’m going to back in active rotation as of tomorrow.”

“That’s wonderful news.”

“Mycroft, I’m sorry. I was so embarrassed, and I thought you were embarrassed, too.”

“Nothing of the sort, my dear. I was at a loss as to what to do—a rare and debilitating condition, in my case. I was afraid if I intervened directly, you’d be angry. I wasn’t certain how to help. And that it was Sherlock who was responsible for your predicament did not aide matters!”

“I had a drink with John a few days ago. She apologised. She was embarrassed, too. And she wanted suggestions about how to deal with Sherlock. They’re have trouble, too. Believe it or not, she is actually quite smitten with Sherlock.”

“What did you advise?”

“That she take Sherlock over her knee and paddle her like the naughty thing she is.”

Mycroft gasped, then laughed. “Oh, my word. It is a good thing there are no cameras in the Baker Street flat.”

“I know,” said Lestrade, giggling.

Oh, that sound: laughter.

“My dear, I would suggest a rendezvous, but I’m not in the country.”

“Are you working all night?”

Oh, that cheeky tone was back, too. Mycroft’s eyes teared with relief.

“What do you have in mind?” she asked.

“Dinner, film, masturbating to the wicked things you’re going to do to me when you return.”

“I can definitely make time for that. Say, in an hour?”

“I’ll be here.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose at the kissing noise. The line cut, but she stared at the phone for a long moment, then said with no little wonder,

“The Ice Bitch melt-eth.”


	10. Spanking. (fem!Johnlock. Rating: Teen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock destroys John's kettle with predictable and unpredictable results. Spanking (light). Rating: Teen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a [video of the kettle](http://dduane.tumblr.com/post/23166819925/the-221b-kettle-with-which-sherlock-boils-the), courtesy of Diane Duane's tumblr.

“Sherlock, what are you doing with my kettle?”

“It’s medieval to use to an old-fashioned kettle instead of an electric one, John.”

“It was my Gran’s, and you destroyed the last two electric kettles.”

_BOOM!_

John hit the ground.

“John.”

The word was faint, but unmistakable.

John looked up.

Sherlock loomed over her, yet it was far easier to read her lips than hear her.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock mouthed.

John stared at the fragment of plastic handle dangling from Sherlock’s index finger.

Sherlock herself was unscathed. John looked down at her own body. She was fine, too, except for her hearing.

And the bloody menace she had for a flatmate!

After a fortnight of keeping herself in check, every conversation, every interaction, John finally snapped.

And lunged.

She aimed for Sherlock’s mid-drift and hit her with a rugby tackle. Then she threw her over her shoulder and carried her to the sitting room.

They dropped together onto the centre of the sofa, John rolling Sherlock until Sherlock lay across her lap.

_WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!_

Three slaps to Sherlock’s pyjama-clad buttocks.

“Such a naughty girl!”

_WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!_

“Wow. Lestrade was right. It’s quite satisfying—“

Then John realised that Sherlock wasn’t moving.

Fuck. What was she doing? Was she mad?

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock twisted her head.

Her grin was wide and wicked.

John laughed. “Oh, you bloody—!”

Sherlock nodded. "Guilty as charged."

They’d been walking on eggshells for weeks. John had twisted herself into knots trying to get past the guilt and the shame and the anger. Every time John opened her mouth, she never knew what to say.

So, she said nothing. And neither did Sherlock.

Confusion and silence had reigned and held them both miserable, pitiful captives.

And to think, all it had taken was an exploding tea kettle!

And a spanking.

“You are a naughty girl,” said John.

Sherlock smirked, then she leaned away from John and reached down.

Sherlock drew out a box from under the sofa.

“Russell Hobbs. Glass.”

John’s jaw dropped.

Sherlock pointed to the picture on the box.

“Glows blue when it boils,” Sherlock said twice, slowly, turning so her face towards John when she spoke.

John shook her head slowly. Her eyes teared.

Sherlock shifted.

John drew her into her arms.

“I love you, Sherlock.”

She kissed Sherlock’s forehead and nose and cheeks and lips, repeating the phrase with each press of her lips.

“John.”

The word vibrated against John’s skin.

John whispered in Sherlock’s ear. “You love me, too.”

Sherlock nuzzled at John’s neck, then took John’s chin in her fingers and turned John’s head towards her.

“Sorry about your Gran’s kettle,” she mouthed.

“My Gran was hateful.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. John continued.

“It was a stupid kettle. But I was tired of you destroying them. That one—“

Sherlock shook her head. “Never,” she promised.

John smiled, then raised an eyebrow and nodded at the hall which led to Sherlock’s bedroom.

“Cuppa after?” she suggested.

Sherlock nodded and took her by the hand.


	11. Looking after (fem!Johnlock. PWP.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's first time with John. PWP.

“Your lips,” said John between kisses, “are so utterly kissable.”

Sherlock tilted her head. One corner of her mouth twitched in a half-smile.

John kissed Sherlock softly, first the centre of her mouth, then each corner, then the cupid’s bow, then the plump bottom lip. Then she kissed Sherlock hard, with almost-bites.

Sherlock squirmed beneath John on the bed. Then she set about soothing Sherlock’s ravaged pout with her tongue, brushing, teasing, caressing.

“I could do this all day,” John said when she pushed up onto her forearms.

Sherlock shot her a disbelieving look.

John nodded. “I’m serious. Whenever you want, we can just snog on the sofa. Pretend to watch telly. Cuddle. Kiss. Nothing more, if that’s what you want.”

Sherlock nodded, then demanded,

“But for now, I want more.”

John gave her more.

She nuzzled Sherlock’s hair, then kissed her temple and along her jawline.

Sherlock lifted her chin in invitation and John peppered her neck with kisses.

Sherlock’s arms wrapped ‘round John’s shoulders. On of John’s hand rest lightly on one side of Sherlock’s face and the other by her head the pillow.

Then John buried her face in the side of Sherlock’s neck and simply breathed, adjusting the rise and fall of her own breath to Sherlock’s, willing her heartbeat to match Sherlock’s rhythm, too.

They stayed locked in this intimate tableau until Sherlock’s hands dropped to John’s waist, then slipped beneath her jumper.

“Yeah, I want this off, too,” said John. She drew the jumper of her head and quickly rid herself of her belt. “I want to feel you. My skin on yours. Christ, Sherlock, so warm, so soft.”

John’s ears were beginning to recover from the blast, for she heard Sherlock clearly when she said,

“I don’t believe anyone’s ever accused me of anything but coldness and edge, John.”

John was nuzzling again, this time from the crook of Sherlock’s neck down to the V of her pyjama top. “Yeah, well, the world’s chocked full of idiots. You taught me that.”

John heard and felt Sherlock’s laugh.

Then Sherlock unbuttoned her top and spread the sides apart. Her hands went to the fastening of her bra, but John batted them away.

“Make me work for it.”

Sherlock smirked.

“Interesting. And noted.”

John kissed the valley of Sherlock’s cleavage and the two swells of her breasts. She licked the silken cups of the bras, then snaked her tongue between fabric and skin and flicked Sherlock’s nipple.

Sherlock quickly unfastened the centre clasp. The sides of the bra sprang apart and John latched at once to a dusky bud. She fondled the other breast as she suckled.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” she said when she pulled off with a wet pop.

“Whenever, John?” slurred Sherlock, looking down. “Pretending to watch telly?”

John laughed and gave Sherlock’s nipple a lick, then a nibble, then another lick.

“To be quite coarse, I’d suck these tits in the middle of Trafalgar Square, Sherlock.”

Sherlock laughed, then frowned. “Perhaps for a case?” she mused.

John nodded, then applied her ministrations to the other breast.

“Sherlock.”

John rose up, skin slid ‘cross skin, and she said urgently, “Sherlock, I want all of you, my love.”

Sherlock made quick work of her remaining clothes. Then she spread her legs and John settled between them, nuzzling at her belly.

John sighed and kissed each hip bone.

“Clit?” she asked.

Sherlock whimpered.

“Cunt, too?”

Sherlock whimpered again.

John sank lower and kissed Sherlock’s inner thighs. “You’ve never been shy about voicing your opinion, and I don’t expect you to start now. I’ll just say, for the record, that I’m here to look after you, bring you pleasure, and if that’s not happening for whatever reason, you let me know. I’ll stop.”

John rubbed her mouth against Sherlock’s skin, then pressed a kiss to her hairy mons.

When she looked up, Sherlock met her gaze.

John smiled.

“Christ, those eyes. They slay me.”

Sherlock returned the smile, then pursed her lips and spread her legs wider.

“Please, John. Fuck me.”

John pushed Sherlock’s hair aside with one hand and lightly teased Sherlock’s clit with her lips and tongue. Then John covered the bud with her mouth and began to suck ever so slightly, with her tongue darting in to caress around the edges.

John kept at it, reveling in Sherlock’s moans and the way her hips lifted, pressed up into John’s touch.

Sherlock’s hands were on the back of John’s head, then they were twined in John’s hair.

John didn’t stop. She committed to memory every touch, every caress, every brush of wet and warm and soft that made Sherlock gasp and shiver and say her name.

“John?”

“Yeah, whenever, pretending to watch telly, suckling this clit, sure.”

“Trafalgar Square?”

John snorted. “Why not? You’re that good, gorgeous. Worth going to jail for, worth going to Hell for.”

Sherlock’s grip on John’s hair tightened suddenly.

John looked up.

“So are you, John.”

John bit Sherlock’s thigh.

“Fingers,” said Sherlock.

“Oh, I’ll need—“

And then, of course, a small bottle of lubricant was being shoved in John’s face.

* * *

The scent of Sherlock was the only air John was breathing. Her wetness, her hair, her folds, her nub and nerves and pleadings, John’s only points of reference.

She’d buried herself in Sherlock, two fingers deep inside her cunt thrusting, her mouth tending to Sherlock’s over-swollen clit.

“John.” The taps on John’s head were hard, then Sherlock’s sweat-slicked body tensed and clamped ‘round John with near-suffocating force.

When Sherlock’s grip finally loosened and her legs slipped from John’s shoulders, John kissed her belly and whispered,

“Love you, my beautiful girl.”

“You, too, John. Prison, hell, Trafalgar Square.”

Sherlock pushed herself to sitting.

John rolled back on her knees and wiped her face with her arm.

“I’ve made a mess of you,” said Sherlock, kissing John’s lips and humming. “You’ve made a mess of me, too.”

“That’s two gals just being pals. Looking after each other.”

“Speaking of, tea?”

“Yes!”


	12. Breeding. (221b. Sherlock & John. Cracky dream. No smut.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 221b. Cracky dream. Sherlock & John. No smut. Taking the piss of BBC Sherlock S4 & Omegaverse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of smut. I don't want to breed my girls. So just a bit of silliness.

“Daddy?”

John opened her eyes. And screamed.

“There’s a child in the flat, Sherlock!”

The tow-headed girl beside the bed said, “Where else would I be, Daddy?”

“Listen,” said John, sitting up. “There’s no possible way I could be your—HOLY FUCK! I’ve got a cock! Jesus- _fucking_ -Christ!”

“Daddy! You owe me a pound for all those bad words you just said!”

“Who are you?!” cried John.

“I’m Rosie. Silly Daddy!”

“Daddy? But then who was your mother? Sherlock?”

“No, Mummy was an international assassin. And a nurse. She shot Papa. Then she jumped in front of him at an aquarium and died.”

“WHAT?!”

“Rosie, are you having that nightmare again?” said a deep baritone.

John screamed.

“YOU’RE NOT A WOMAN!”

“That was for a case, John.”

“No, I just fucked your cunt! I have a cunt, too. Or I used to. Where’s my cunt?”

“Another pound!” said Rosie with glee. “Cunt’s a bad word?”

“Yes,” said John and Sherlock in unison.

“John, I told you not to eat those prawns. Rosie is ours, of course. You were on heat suppressants, but then they didn’t work and I, being an Alpha, but my,” Sherlock sat up and glanced at Rosie, “ _tumescence_ in your bottom and—“

“ARGH! NONE OF THIS MAKES ANY SENSE!” cried John.

Then, mercifully, everything faded to black.


	13. Somnophilia (fem!Johnlock & fem!Mystrade)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning sex. PWP. fem!Johnlock & fem!Mystrade.

“Mornings like this,” whispered John.

She and Sherlock were curled side-by-side facing each other in bed.

“It’s warm beneath the covers. And cool outside them. Rain beating on the pane. Early. Still dark. No cases. No surgery. No screens. No alarms or alerts. Nowhere to be. Nothing to do.”

In the shadows, John could just make out the outlines of Sherlock’s face and the rise and fall of her chest.

“I’m just lifting out of sleep. And warm. So warm. My body’s warm. My blood’s warm. It’s such a delicious feeling. I just want to savour it, guard it. Not let the world interfere, intervene, and spoil it. I just want to— _fuck_!”

“Crawl atop me and rut?” breathed Sherlock.

John nodded. “Or…”

She looked away and bit her lip.

“Or?” Sherlock prompted at John’s hesitation. “It’s all fine, John. I promise.”

“Or wake to find you’ve crawled atop me and are already fucking yourself on me.”

John spoke the words quickly in a single exhaled breath.

“John.”

The thick ache in Sherlock’s voice emboldened John to continue.

“I’m your little sex toy, Sherlock. To be used. For pleasure. For comfort. For exploration.”

“Oh, God, yes,” Sherlock groaned. Then she flopped on her back and closed her eyes.

“But not,” John warned, “for experimentation.”

Sherlock turned her head towards John and cracked one eye. Then she smirked and said, “Noted. Go on. Please.”

Sherlock Holmes never said ‘please.’ The word shot straight to the core of John and buoyed both her noble heart and her filthy mind.

“Spend all morning fucking and being fucked. Sleeping in each other’s arms and waking to cunts and hair and the smell of sex. You push a nipple between my lips and I suckle. You draw my hand to your breast and I toy with it. You wake me with your whimpering pleas to fuck you, showing me your wet mons and your swollen clit, two fingers sunk deep in your hungry cunt, you’ve brought yourself to the edge but beg me to push you over, into bliss.”

“I think we’re already there, bliss, that is,” rumbled Sherlock.

John watched the duvet begin to ripple and realised that Sherlock was pleasuring herself with her own hand beneath the covers.

John grabbed a pillow that had fallen to the floor and shoved it beneath her, pushing down her pants as she mounted it.

She began to rut.

“I call you my enchantress dragon, my gorgeous beast, my beautiful girl, my wanton siren, my unlikely miracle and all other manner of syrupy endearments that would provoke scoffs and scorns in the harsh light of day.”

“John.”

“Or I wake to your tongue in my cunt.”

“John!”

“You’re so needy, you can’t wait for me to wake, you try but your want is too great, so you roll me and bury your face in my sex and lap. You lick and suckle and tease and bring me to climax in my dreams while your own hand tends to your own need. After we come, you rest with your head pillowed on my thigh. And wait for me to wake to do it again.”

Sherlock’s bitten-back cry was all John needed. She rubbed hard against the pillow. The sweetness burst, then spread inside her.

“Your argument is persuasive, John,” slurred Sherlock. “Morning sex may, just may, be the best sex.”

John tore her vest and pants off and crawled atop Sherlock’s nude form, nuzzling and licking her soft, warm skin. “I’ve not finished presenting my case, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath. “Well, by all means, proceed…”

* * *

Mycroft moved silently into the bedroom and laid a hand on Lestrade’s bare shoulder.

“You’re home,” she mumbled. Without opening her eyes, she reached a hand back and clumsily flipped the covers down.

Home.

Like others, a word that tumbled from her lips too easily.

Home. Yours. Love.

This was her flat, not Mycroft’s, not theirs, but she’d given Mycroft a key—not that you need one, she joked, but Mycroft had assured her that cloak-and-dagger ways were not for personal use—for this express purpose.

“When you return, stop by on your way from the airport. I’ll give you a ‘welcome home.’”

Home.

It was the word that had decided Mycroft.

“Have you fucked?”

Mycroft blinked, not certain she’d heard her correctly, for she’d employed the precise tone and cadence that a dutiful wife would use to ask her husband if he’d eaten.

“No,” Mycroft said, half expecting her to intimate the presence of a covered plate in the fridge.

She hummed and pushed the covers down, exposing a delicate pink nightgown, which she hiked up. She patted the swell of her hip and said, “I saved you some.”

At that Mycroft laughed.

She smiled, then her face fell back into sleep’s solemnity.

Mycroft took a deep breath and drank in the sight of her.

Curves and softness and warmth.

Yes, she wanted a fuck.

She toed out of her shoes and remove her tie. She unfastened her trousers and very, very carefully eased onto the bed, not touching the woman below her until the V of her trousers brushed against an expanse of skin, bare save for the thin ribbon of a pair of delicate pink knickers.

Mycroft rut and came without a sound.

She pressed her lips to Lestrade’s shoulder.

“Good?”

Mycroft smiled. “Very good.”

“Stay?”

It was not a whine, and Mycroft’s heart thumped when she replied,

“If you’d like.”

A snort.

Mycroft removed the remainder of her clothes and slipped beneath the covers, pressing her nude form to Lestrade’s back.

“A warning, Mycroft.”

The voice was harder than it had been.

Mycroft tensed and waited.

“When I wake up, I’m going to fuck you into the mattress.”

Mycroft released the breath she’d been holding. “Is that a promise?”

“Mm. I’m very naughty in the mornings.”

Mycroft leaned up to kiss the side of her neck and whispered, “In that case, I eagerly await the dawn.”


	14. Daddy kink. (fem!Mystrade)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft gives Lestrade a gift. Daddy kink.

Somehow Mycroft knew the moment that Lestrade was fully awake, for as soon as her eyes fluttered open, she felt lips on her bare shoulder and a soft, “My dear.”

There was far too much concern for too few words.

Lestrade turned sharply. “What’s wrong?”

Mycroft shook her head, then forced a smile. “I got you something while I was away.”

Lestrade’s eyes widened.

“Too early?” asked Mycroft nervously.

Nervous. Mycroft Holmes was never nervous.

Lestrade shook her head, then smiled.

“It’s a bit conventional. Perhaps more conventional than we are.”

Cryptic. Mycroft Holmes was very often cryptic, but Lestrade had got better at interpreting her.

“Try me,” she said.

Mycroft reached down and retrieved a small gift bag from beneath the bed.

Lestrade drew out a box and opened it.

“Holy Mary!”

She held up the bracelet. “Mycroft.”

Even in the dim morning light, the diamonds sparkled.

Mycroft shrugged, then asked, “Too much?”

Lestrade shook her head. “But I daren’t wear it to work.”

“Don’t want to upstage the crime scene?”

“People will begin to take bets on who my sugar daddy is.”

Mycroft grinned. “Let them wonder.”

Oh, it’s like that, is it?

Lestrade smiled and held out her wrist. “Will you do the honours?”

Mycroft obliged.

“You’re going to spoil me, aren’t you?”

Mycroft kissed the pulse of her wrist. “The risk’s not negligible. I find myself quite tempted. I often remind myself that you are a professional, a colleague, even, in some respects, and not—”

Lestrade leaned forward and put her weight on her hands. As desired and intended, Mycroft’s gaze dropped from her face to her breasts, which were threatening to spill out of the nightgown bodice.

“I’m not your baby girl,” breathed Lestrade.

“Yes,” said Mycroft, dragging her eyes back to Lestrade’s face.

“But here,” said Lestrade, glancing around them at the rumpled sheets. “You can spoil me to your heart’s content.”

“You don’t know the depths of my heart,” warned Mycroft.

“Don’t I?” teased Lestrade. She turned, then scooted back towards Mycroft, plucking at her nightgown, so that it flounced as she neared her. “Buy me pretty things, bounce me on your lap, call me pretty things, take such good care of me. What’s not to know? What’s not to love?”

Then they were slotted together. They fit together so well that Lestrade almost gasped.

Instead, she looked up and back at Mycroft, who smirked and said in a low voice,

“You are a wicked, wicked, woman.”

Lestrade grinned. “But I’m not wrong.”

Mycroft wrapped her arms around Lestrade’s waist and kissed her neck. “No. This is a pretty thing.” She slipped two fingers under the strap of the nightgown and eased it down Lestrade’s arm until her breast was exposed. Then she cupped Lestrade’s breast, squeezing the fullness and thumbing the nipple. “This is another pretty thing. I’d love to buy you pretty clothes and dress you up. Watch you play.”

Lestrade arched into Mycroft’s touch and reached an arm back to curl around Mycroft’s head.

“Play with pretty toys?” she asked.

Mycroft stilled her hand’s caress.                                                                               

Lestrade caught her wide-eyed gaze and winked.

“Wicked,” pronounced Mycroft.

“But not wrong. You’d like that?”

By way of reply, Mycroft scraped her teeth along Lestrade’s neck. “Very much so. On second consideration, this sugar daddy business holds even greater appeal.”

“Let me show you how much I like my gift, Daddy,” said Lestrade, fingering the bracelet. “It’s so pretty.”

“Pretty things for a pretty girl,” said Mycroft, licking her lips as Lestrade slipped out of her nightgown and knickers and twisted in Mycroft’s embrace.


	15. Piercings or Jewelry (fem!Johnlock & fem!Mystrade. Mostly fluff.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gift-giving, Holmes-style. Mostly fluff, a bit of Mystrade car smut. fem!Johnlock & fem!Mystrade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always thought it funny that BBC John has to share a flat but he's wearing a watch worth 3000 pounds.

Sherlock halted abruptly as she passed by the open office door. “Nice earrings, Detective Inspector,” she said just as John crashed into her.

Without looking up from the file on her desk, Lestrade waved a dismissive hand, “Thank you for giving a statement, Sherlock, now on your way.”

“Ooo!” said John. “Sparkly! You treat yourself?”

Sherlock snorted. “On a civil servant’s salary? Those earrings are five thousand pounds, each, John. Someone’s been a _very_ good girl.”

John grabbed Sherlock by her coat and dragged her to the lift and as the lift doors closed, her angry voice rang out, “Sherlock, that was—“

* * *

“Completely uncalled for,” said Mycroft.

“Yes,” said Lestrade. “She hasn’t been that rude since—“

“Before John. I’m sorry, my dear. Shall I speak to her?”

Lestrade shook her head. “I was flustered for a moment, but I quickly realised—”

“That her outburst had nothing to do with you or your jewelry?”

Lestrade nodded. “John?”

“Yes, indirectly. My best guess would be a bit of old fashioned sibling rivalry. The tendency to be a—oh what do you call it when I buy you pretty things?” she teased.

“Sugar daddy?”

Mycroft laughed. “Yes, that inclination may be stronger in me, but I don’t think it’s escaped Sherlock altogether.”

“Even if you’re right, I can’t see John wearing earrings like this.” Lestrade frowned as she touched her earlobe. “Or any jewelry at all.”

“Perhaps that’s the rub.”

Lestrade nodded. “Speaking of rubbing…”

“Come here.” Mycroft reached for her.

Lestrade slid across the leather seat and settled in Mycroft’s lap, her back to Mycroft’s chest. She touched her earlobe once more.

“Ten thousand pounds, Mycroft?”

“Your price is above rubies, my dear, certainly above diamonds. But if the expense makes you uncomfortable—“

“It doesn’t actually. Is that wicked?”

Mycroft kissed her neck. “Assuredly.”

Lestrade quickly slipped her hands under her own jumper, unfastened her bra, then opened her trousers. She took Mycroft’s hand in hers, drawing one to her breast and the other to between her legs.

“Bring me off before dinner?”

Mycroft kissed her lips. “During and after as well, if you’d like.”

“Now who’s wicked?”

“That makes us a pair,” said Mycroft. “As if a few baubles compared to having you moaning and writhing and coming in my hands,” she added softly.

“They aren’t exactly baubles, Mycroft. Oh, that, yes.” She arched into Mycroft’s touch.

“True and if—“

“What?”

Mycroft grunted. “Something far too Machiavellian for the moment.”

Lestrade twisted. Mycroft met her gaze.

“If things don’t last, I’ll have an asset I can liquidate.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened.

“I’m not actually a girl, Mycroft. And as much as I adore you, I am not naïve. And I’ve got a pension to think of.”

“A second one, now,” said Mycroft gently. “And you’re right. We see too much horror to believe in fairytales.”

“Thank goodness,” added Lestrade. “Please.”

Mycroft kissed her cheek and resumed her ministrations.

Lestrade whined. “Mycroft.”

“Hmm. A car fuck won’t do, will it?”

“I’d rather you take me to your nice big bed and really, really—“

“Perhaps the restaurant will make a small selection of specialties available for later consumption.”

“I don’t think they do take-out, Mycroft.”

“I think they might be persuaded.”

Lestrade sighed, “As you wish,” as Mycroft took her earlobe in her mouth and teased the diamond stud with her tongue.

* * *

“Are we going to talk about what that was actually all about, Sherlock? Because it wasn’t about Lestrade. Or those earrings.”

“Just making small talk. Isn’t that what normal people do?”

“Try again or keep it to yourself, but don’t insult my meager intelligence. You didn’t fool me. Or her.”

They passed the rest of the journey in silence, save for the moment before the taxi rolled to a stop outside the Baker Street.

Sherlock mumbled, “Who doesn’t have their ears pierced," and fled the vehicle, leaving John to settle with the driver.

* * *

John drank a coffee, then a second coffee, then used the loo, then moved back to her perch, which was next to a counter, which was next to a window, which gave onto the street. On the opposite side of the street was a shop.

John had stared at the shop window for more than an hour, then finally said to herself,

“I can’t do it.”

“Good for you,” said a voice beside her.

John jumped. “Sherlock! Jesus Christ! Don’t sneak up on me.”

“It can hardly be called ‘sneaking up’ when you’ve been sitting beside someone for a half an hour.”

“You have not!”

“I handed you the sugar!”

John stared, then huffed. “I don’t want to get my ears pierced, Sherlock. Or nipples or nose or navel or tongue. Or anything else. I don’t like jewelry. Even for you.” She wrinkled her face in distaste. “I won't do it. I’m sorry. I suppose I'm not very accommodating.”

“You shot a man for me the day after we met. I suppose we can call that 'accommodating.' But as far as jewelry, I don’t want you to be anything other than you are, John.”

“Well that makes one of us. I wish I were,” she waved at the shop window across the street, “something.”

“You are something, John.”

Sherlock produced a small box.

“Sherlock,” John admonished. "You already got me a kettle."

"After I destroyed three kettles. This is different. Open it.

John did. And she smiled.

“A watch. Do I even want to know how much—?”

“No. You need only know that it tells time admirably and there’s an inscription.”

John removed the watch from the box and turned it over and read,

“TO MY BELOVED CONDUCTOR OF LIGHT. MY FIXED POINT IN A CHANGING AGE. YOURS EVER. SH”

“You see, John, you habitually underrate your own achievements, while not luminous—“

John silenced her with a kiss.


	16. Masturbation. (fem!Mystrade & fem!Johnlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 221b x 4. Pleasure, even when life makes it inconvenient. Rating: Mature. fem!Mystrade & fem!Johnlock. Some h/c (Sherlock/John). Vibrator (Lestrade). Scars (Mycroft.)

“Is this okay?” asked Lestrade for the second time. She was propped up against the headboard of Mycroft’s bed, ensconced in a bank of pillows, in a short green nightgown and matching knickers.

Mycroft was lying on her stomach atop a second bank of pillows; she was situated between Lestrade’s knees with a vibrator in hand.

“Would it ease your anxiety to know that tonight I confess to a slight fatigue?”

Lestrade stared. “Mycroft Holmes is tired?”

“Yes. And a labour-saving device, such as this one, is not without its appeal,” she held up the vibrator.

Lestrade snorted. “I’m tired, too. But I still want…”

“And I want…and thus…. Ready?”

Lestrade nodded. “Outside first.”

The vibrator buzzed.

Mycroft touched the whirring tip to the top of Lestrade’s knickers, moving it slowly about the entire expanse of green silk.

Lestrade closed her eyes and leaned back on the pillows. “S’good,” she slurred as she reached her arms up and bent them at the elbow. “Yeah, right there,” she added as Mycroft eased the vibrator ‘round her clit. “I think I’m ready to—“

Mycroft set the vibrator aside and drew Lestrade’s knickers down and off.

“Too tired for a kiss?” asked Lestrade.

“Never. On the lips?”

Lestrade nodded and spread her folds with two fingers.

Mycroft grinned and crawled forward. “Hello, beautiful.”

* * *

“Mycroft.”

“Rare, isn’t it?” she said as she stood and began to unbutton her shirt. “The product of the end of a very long week and just watching a beautiful woman climax twice. Too tired to be ashamed of my scars and too aroused not to do slake my lust.”

“Privacy?”

Mycroft shook her head and mounted the pillows. “But stay where you are.”

“How about an eyeful?”

Mycroft smiled. “That’d be lovely.”

Lestrade eased the straps of the nightgown off her shoulder and cupped her heavy breasts. “You like these.”

“What’s not to like?” said Mycroft as she began to rut.

Lestrade put her hand between her legs, then brought it to her nipple, smearing the bud with wetness. “You want a taste?” she cooed, holding the nipple between two fingers and thumb.

“Yes.”

“This one, too?” Lestrade repeated the gesture on the other side, then squeezed her breasts together.

“Yes.”

“Do you mind if I—?” Lestrade nodded toward the vibrator.

“Not.”

Lestrade slipped out of the nightgown, then reached for the vibrator and lubricant. “I can’t come like this, but sometimes it just feels good.” She teased her entrance, then pushed the tip in. “Okay?”

“An understatement.”

“God, My, want you, fucking me—“

Mycroft stilled, face hidden, then looked up.

Lestrade smirked and said, “Come here, beautiful.”

* * *

“You said I could, John.”

“What?” John grunted as she clumsily threw an arm out, hitting Sherlock’s arm. Waist? Shoulder?

John inhaled.

Sex. Sherlock’s sex. Waist. Not arm or shoulder.

“Yeah, you gorgeous beast.”

“You were so good last night. How’s the eye? Looks awful.”

John had forgot about the eye, but speak of the devil and it begins to throb.

“Hurts like hell. Wait, Sherlock, are you masturbating to my battered face?”

“No, I’m masturbating to the memory of what you did to Huret. _His_ battered face. Well, at least, how it got battered.”

John laughed. “Boulevard Assassin, my arse!”

“Fuck!”

“That good, eh?”

“Yeah. John.”

“Mm?”

“Take the painkillers.”

“No.”

“Your ribs.”

“What? No, I just need to take it easy for a few days—ow! Jesus Christ, Sherlock!”

“Take them.” A bottle of pills landed on the bed. “I’m not going to come unless you take them.”

John turned her head and cracked one eye. “How is denying yourself pleasure punishment for me?”

“Oh, I must have you confused with the John Watson who _likes_ to watch me orgasm! Take them and you’ll rest. You didn’t rest last night.”

“How do you know?”

Sherlock huffed and rolled her eyes.

John swallowed two bitter, chalky pills dry, grimaced, then said, “Happy?”

“Ecstatic. Well, almost.”

“Then come for me, beautiful.”

* * *

“Better.”

“You just want me doped up.”

“I want you to wake up moaning for the right reason.”

“That bad, was it?” John sighed. “I do like to watch you come, though! Christ, Sherlock. Brilliant and beautiful.” She brushed Sherlock’s cheek with the back of her hand. “How did I get so lucky?”

“I think the same thing, John.”

“When I’m pummeling bad guys?”

“And when you’re making tea. And reading mindless ravings parading as popular literature.”

“I will never know what you have against Agatha Poppyseed. She’s an excellent detective.”

“ _I’m_ an excellent detective. And you’re—”

“Conductor of excellence?”

Sherlock smiled.

John turned towards her and lifted her leg. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock reached a hand under John’s leg and brought it atop her own. Slowly, gently, she slotted their lower halves together.

John curled her arms around Sherlock’s neck and Sherlock rolled them together, even more slowly and gently, until she was on her back and John was on top of her.

John’s hips began to rut. “It’s my joy to live and work alongside you, Sherlock.” She brushed a sloppy half-kiss to Sherlock’s neck. “This life is mad, but I wouldn’t want to spend it with anyone else. I love you.”

“John.” Sherlock kissed the top of John’s head.

John’s hips slowed, then stopped.

“John?” Sherlock looked down. “Ah, sweet dreams, beautiful.”


	17. Costume or Disguise. (fem!Johnlock. Silly. Rating: Teen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John confesses to a venerable Italian priest. fem!Johnlock. Rating: Teen. Just a bit of silliness.

“Where are you, Sherlock, Our Lady of the Cryptic yet Urgent Texts?” muttered John as she looked about the nave. “Might as well say a prayer. With Sherlock, you never know, I might need it.” She dipped her fingers in the holy water, crossed herself, and entered the sanctuary.

Not seeing Sherlock, John slipped into a pew and sat. She leaned forward and bowed her head.

“My dear,” whispered a soft voice. “Are you troubled?”

John looked up, wide-eyed. “Excuse me?”

Then she saw the grey eyes. And evermore it would be only when Sherlock indulged in colour contact lenses that she would be able to fool John when she donned one of her many disguises.

John smiled at the venerable Italian priest. “Look like a lost lamb, do I, Father?”

“None are without redemption, and confession is good for the soul.” The priest extended a hand toward a decorated nook. “I’d be happy to hear yours.”

John followed the hunched figure and said in a low voice, “Just so you know, I’m only armed with an examined conscience, Father. I refuse to carry instruments of violence in a place of sanctuary.”

The priest turned and exclaimed, “Troubled but noble! And a willing heart is all the good Lord requires.”

John slid the door closed. “Bless me father for I have sinned. It’s been four weeks since my last confession.”

“Four weeks?!” squeaked the priest in very Sherlockian voice. “For God’s sake, what do—?”

“Father?” asked John in mock confusion.

“Oh, what I mean to say is, well done, my dear. Young people today are often not so devoted to their sacramental duties.”

“You flatter me, Father. I am not young, but I do have a flatmate who would try the patience of Job.”

“I am quite certain this flatmate has many sterling qualities that far outshine any minor peccadillos.”

“That’s not what I wish to confess. It is a sin to have any gods before the one, but I have a secret obsession. It’s of the carnal variety.”

“Yes?” the priest said eagerly. “Unburden yourself, my lost lamb. Don’t omit any sordid detail.”

“There’s someone who drives me mad. I’ve been reduced to an absolute slave.”

“Oh, yes?”

“His name is Captain Basil.”

“WHO?!”

“Thoughts of him fill my every waking moment, and my dreams, Father, are so depraved. Lurid. Lustful.”

“Hmm. Tell me more,” the priest grumbled. “Who is this Captain Basil?”

“He’s an East End familiar. Fancy moustache. Strong. Inked. The fragrance of the sea e’er about him.”

“Smells like old fish, does he?”

“We crossed paths by chance, and I was overcome. He took me right then in a dirty alley. His cock is phenomenal. Thick and long. It stretches me and fills me. Oh, God!”

“Indeed.”

“He puts his hand up my skirt—“

“Ah-ha! You never wear skirts!”

“And you’ve never read _Agatha Poppyseed and the Mystery of the Aubergine Prawn_ _,_ idiot! Now stop desecrating a holy place and tell me what this is about!”


	18. Exhibitionism. (fem!Johnlock & fem!Mystrade)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Roman holiday for our pairs. 221b x 2. PWP. Public sex.

“You objected to a bit of flirtation in a confessional, John, and yet you are more than willing to display affection publicly against the wall of the Holy See.”

“Kiss me. Now.”

John wove her fingers in Sherlock’s hair and yanked her closer. Their lips met in a crushing kiss which left them both gasping for air.

“Fuck me, Sherlock. Here.”

Sherlock quickly unbuttoned the Belstaff. John unfastened her jeans.

Sherlock batted John’s hands away and sank a gloved hand inside the denim. “A thigh to rut or…?” She began to rub John’s crotch.

“Oh, that’s good. Fuck. The leather’s incredible. Why have you never done that before? Christ! Sorry. Just kiss me.”

Sherlock obliged.

John broke the kiss to buried her face in Sherlock’s neck as her hips bucked. “You solved a case for the Pope, Sherlock! In less than three days! Do you know how fucking amazing that is? How fucking amazing _you_ are?”

“It’s beginning to dawn,” said Sherlock with a smile. “If this is the result, I shall heretofore be at His Holiness’s beck and call.”

“Fuck!” breathed John before she sank her teeth in Sherlock’s neck. She dissolved to trembling as Sherlock held her tight, then whispered, “I love you, Sherlock, but the little affair of the Vatican Cameos will never, ever, go on the blog.”

* * *

Mycroft lowered her mobile. “My dear, she’s solved it.”

“What?!” Lestrade dropped her suitcase on the bed. “We just got here!” Her face fell. “I don’t suppose she needs back-up now.”

“Perhaps since we are in Rome, we could have a Roman holiday.”

“Really?”

“It’s late, but I believe that I can secure us a private tour of the Saint Peter’s and environs for tomorrow.”

“Oh, Mycroft!” Lestrade threw herself in Mycroft’s arms. She hugged her tight, then broke away to say,

“Your sister solved a case for the Pope in sixty-eight hours. That’s fucking amazing.”

“Don’t tell her that.

“And now,” Lestrade led Mycroft by the hand to the balcony. “We’re on a holiday!” she squealed.

She turned with her back to the railing and unbuttoned her blouse. “Come here.”

Mycroft closed the distance between them.

Lestrade twisted in her arms. “Strip me and fuck me, please.”

Mycroft licked Lestrade’s neck as she stripped her of blouse and bra. Then she cupped Lestrade’s breasts, fondling them as Lestrade moaned.

“Quite glad I brought a skirt. For church and for, oh, God, afterwards. Brought toys, too. How long can we stay?”

“Fuck,” whispered Mycroft. “As long as you wish, my dear.” She fell to her knees. “Now the only question is: should Rome see your gorgeous breasts or your gorgeous bottom?”

 


	19. Past or Future (Sherlock/Lestrade/John/Mycroft. Dream sex.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade's bacchanal dream. 221b x 3. Dream sex. Sherlock/Lestrade/John/Mycroft. Mycroft with a dream-cock.

Lestrade woke to the taste of wine on her lips and a weight on her chest.

She cracked one eye and looked down just as John lifted her head from where it was pillowed on Lestrade’s breasts.

Her _bare_ breasts.

“John?”

John smiled and, without a word, inched up Lestrade’s body and took one of her nipples in her mouth.

Lestrade cried out in pleasure and confusion. John’s tongue was exquisite, teasing and toying, flicking and fluttering ‘round her sensitive bud. It felt wonderful, so wonderful that Lestrade arched into her suckling, but it was also wrong. Somehow.

“My dear?”

Mycroft.

Mycroft’s smile did not waiver as she approached with a tray. “I arrived just in time to see, Captain Wanton, here,” she bent to slap John’s bare— _bare!_ —bottom, “indulge in her favourite pastime.”

John giggled.

On Mycroft’s tray rested a heavy pewter goblet encrusted with precious stones and a carafe of wine. She filled the former with the half the contents of the latter and moved closer. Then she put the rim to Lestrade’s lips, and as John began to mock-nurse at Lestrade’s teat with long, hard draws, Lestrade drank deep from the proffered cup.

The spirit was sweet and fragrant and heady.

“We celebrate your flesh and the vineyard harvest,” said Mycroft. “Both rich in beauty and bounty.”

* * *

Lestrade pulled away.

Mycroft wiped her lips with a cloth. Then she raised the goblet to the space beside Lestrade’s head.

Two hands appeared, and Lestrade realised that she was cradled against someone.

“Thank you.” The word was a puff of breath against her neck.

From the corner of her eye, Lestrade saw Sherlock bend forward and drink from the cup. Then, the two hands snaked ‘round Lestrade from behind. They shooed John from her place and cupped Lestrade’s breasts.

The hands massaged with such a knowing touch that Lestrade felt her thighs dampen. Her knees spread. Her hips bucked the air of their own accord.

Sherlock squeezed and fondled and thumbed nipples made raw from John’s suckling as John kissed down Lestrade’s belly to her mons.

Then Lestrade was being folded forward. Her knees bent, and Sherlock’s hands reached down and spread her sex.

John gulped from the goblet, then sank between Lestrade’s legs.

Lestrade forced herself to look at Mycroft, whose gaze was dark and wanting.

“Not a task I would normally delegate, my dear, but another role took priority,” she said as John applied lips and tongue to Lestrade’s clit.

Sherlock’s mouth latched to the side of Lestrade’s neck, nibbling and licking. Their expert attentions mixed with sips of wine from the goblet, causing Lestrade’s pleasure to build.

* * *

Mycroft drank after Lestrade.

She was wearing a tunic.

Lestrade frowned.

Then the tunic parted to reveal a cock, erect, thick, and almost purple in colour.

Lestrade’s mouth watered at the sight.

She shrugged off John and Sherlock and crawled onto her hands and knees, then turned.

“Yes, my dear, it’s time for your adoration,” said Mycroft.

John and Sherlock shifted to Lestrade’s sides. Then there was a mouth covering her clit and—she gasped—one teasing her rim. And a cockhead probing her cunt.

The goblet was placed before her, filled to the brim.

Like a beast in heat, she lapped at the wine as the cock filled her and the tongues and lips worshipped her.

She began to moan with each thrust of the cock; a tongue was now buried deep in her arse and a mouth suckled greedily at her clit.

Her orgasm was legion.

She came and came and came until…

* * *

Lestrade woke to the smell of coffee.

“Awake, my dear?”

Lestrade grunted and cracked one eye.

Mycroft’s smile did not waiver as she approached with a tray. “Last day, I’m afraid. Breakfast in bed?”

Lestrade hummed and sat up. “As much as I’ve enjoyed the holiday, I’m ready to return to London. Is it possible to overdose on Rome?”

“Quite possible. Have your dreams turned bacchanal?”


	20. Frottage. (fem!Johnlock. Fluff. Rating: Teen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock & John find an antique in Mrs. Hudson's lumber room. Fluff. Rating: Teen.
> 
> The [Vigor Horse-Action Saddler](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yzNg4j-EYYE) is real.

“Sherlock, we’re supposed to be helping Mrs. Hudson clear out the lumber room.”

“John.”

With a magician’s flourish, Sherlock jerked a heavy cloth. When the dust settled and the coughing ceased, John’s brow furrowed at the object revealed.

“What is it, Sherlock?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Wooden with handle and a saddle and stirrups, but no wheels.”

“A child’s rocking horse?”

“But look of the size of it, John. To the internet!” said Sherlock, disappearing through the door.

“Sherlock!”

* * *

“Incredible,” said Sherlock.

John read over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Vigor & Co. 1895. Horse-Action Saddler. Exercise at home. Wow. It goes to show there’s nothing new under the sun. Mitigates hysteria. I bet it did.”

“Want to give it a go?”

“Sherlock, it’s an antique. It’ll probably fall apart beneath me. It belongs in a museum, unless Mrs. Hudson wants to keep it.”

“I believe the phrase is, ‘they don’t make things like they used to,’ John. Let’s see if that’s true.”

* * *

John sighed and wiped her brow. “Well, that’s the last lot. Mrs. Hudson will be very pleased. Are you still at that thing?”

“John! It’s cleaned and oiled and tested. Now the Horse-Action Saddler, of Vigor & Co., 21 Baker Street, London, is ready for its first proper! Trot, canter, or gallop?”

John laughed. “Trot, but I am warning you, Sherlock, if I end up in the A & E, you owe me.”

“Very well.”

John mounted the contraption and put her hands on the handle. Then she began to rock her hips.

“Oh, oh, oh!”

“It’s working!” cried Sherlock, shaking her head. “Incredible.”

John laughed as she bounced. “Christ, can you imagine this in 1895?”

“Indeed. The Prince of Wales, the Queen, the Emperor of Austria, and John Watson of the 21st century all endorse it. It apparently came with a side saddle for ladies.”

“I’m no lady, Sherlock.”

“Not in this case, no.”

“Sherlock.”

“Hmm?”

“I think that the hysteria mitigation benefits are starting to make themselves known.”

“Indeed?”

John level a stare at her. “You aren’t surprised?”

“Basic biology. And John Watson biology. I’m versed in both.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John panted.

“You like frottage. A lot.”

“Fuck,” John groaned. “Predictable, am I? Suppose that’s a bit boring.”

“Age doesn’t wither you, nor custom stale your infinite variety, John.”

John bucked in the saddle. “Fuck, Sherlock. I may just be able to, Christ, oh, God, yeah. Are you enjoying this?”

“Watching you come is one of the supreme pleasures of my existence, so, yes.”

“Oh, God.”

* * *

“There,” said Mrs. Hudson as the van doors slammed. She turned and gave a stern glance to her tenants. “It belongs in a museum—before it falls apart from vigorous use!”

“Yes, ma’am,” said John, pink-faced.

Sherlock curled an arm around John’s shoulders. “Mrs. Hudson’s quite right, John, but don’t despair. I’ve a modern remedy for your Victorian hysteria.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded as the museum van pulled away. “There.” She pointed to the motorcycle parked across the street.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John breathed.


	21. Sexting / Epistolary. (fem!Johnlock. Fluff.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John writes a love letter. Naturally, it's about tea. Fluff.

John felt strange sitting down with pen and paper.

Who wrote letters these days?

But she’d thought until her head ached and when she’d arrived at her conclusions, it felt not only right, but necessary, to put them down, in ink, in her own hand, on paper.

She now knew precisely what she wanted to say.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_You asked me what kind of tea you would be. Here is my response._

_You are a white tea, delicate in feature, eschewing the world’s rough rolling and shaking. How others see you, define you is not your concern, nevertheless opinions vary greatly, for example, from one Scotland Yard Detective Inspector to the next._

_You are a yellow tea, rare and expensive and welcome in Imperial Courts._

_You are a green tea. Your grace may fray under stress or mood but it does not wither or burn. However, if left too long to steep, you do turn bitter and thus have a foul reputation in some quarters. Your health benefits are questioned by everyone, except one ex-Army doctor who used to walk with a limp and fear holding a fork._

_You are a fermented tea, like pu-erh. Smoky and dark-maned. You are ever fermenting, that is, collecting and archiving information for future use. Your form, like bricks or cakes, is designed for survival through travel, danger, time. Once again, opinions of those who know you well, who know you, and those who know of you differ widely._

_You are an oolong tea, ready to be ripped and bruised and battered by the world for the sake of being clever. You are oddly named. You improve with steeping under the right conditions, which is to say, since our first meeting, I’ve come to not just be astonished by you, but also to respect and admire and want and, yes, adore you._

_I can see you in so many cups, but mostly my own._

_You are an ordinary Orange Pekoe. A black tea. Not rare. Not expensive. Not drunk in high places or grown in tiny legend-steeped squares of the terraced world. Nothing special save for that you’re the tea I want in my cup every morning. I’ve tried a lot of teas, Sherlock, and nothing, nothing, thrills as you do. You surprise me, every morning and throughout the day, not by your perfection, but by your perfect complement to my imperfection. Fancy boxes or tins may still, from time to time, turn my head, but their contents will not satisfy. This, I no longer doubt. So I suppose the answer to what kind of tea are you is that you are just my kind of cuppa._

_And I am yours, for as long as you wish._

_John_

John nodded and folded the sheet of paper. The rising sun was just lightening the early morning sky. She reached for an envelope and—

“John.”

It sounded like Sherlock’s voice, but Sherlock was in Belarus. But as most things with Sherlock were only highly improbable, John called out,

“Sherlock?”

Nothing.

Then she heard it again.

“John.”

The sound was faint and coming from upstairs and, in this John thought that she was surely mistaken, it sounded like a moan.

“John.”

It was her bloody phone!

Sherlock!

**Ridiculous. Open and shut domestic. Not worth my time. SH**

**Certainly not worth missing Sunday. SH**

John smiled at the last.

As unconventional as Sherlock Holmes was in most areas of her life, the idea of resting on Sunday was oddly ingrained. She rarely took a new case on Sunday, even experiments became a lesser priority. They slept in. They ate toast and tea in bed or full English feasts at the kitchen table. They read with legs tangled. They fucked. Or snogged. Or lazed about.

John had suspect that Sherlock enjoyed the pause at the end of the week’s whirlwind as much as she did. Now she had proof.

**Did you change my text alert? JW**

**Obvious. SH**

**Joke? JW**

**Of the forget-me-not variety. SH**

**I haven’t forgot. Come home. Now. JW**

**En route from Heathrow. SH**

John’s eyebrows rose.

**See you soon. JW**

John hurried downstairs, slipped the letter in the envelope, and wrote Sherlock’s name on the outside.

Now where to put it?

She looked around the room.

Of course.

Whenever Sherlock returned to the flat after a prolonged absence, she was…

* * *

“Gasping!” cried Sherlock, followed by the thud of a bag being hurled in a corner. “John!”

John was upstairs. “Sorting dirty laundry,” she replied.

“On a Sunday? This household descends into utter chaos without me. Priorities completely muddled. Why isn’t the kettle on? You should be making us—“

John waited.

After five minutes, she headed for the stairs.

Sherlock met her half-way, swept her up in her arms, and rumbled,

“Prepare to be worshiped, John.”


	22. Body Worship. (fem!Johlock. Fluffy porn.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock reads John's love letter. Fluffy porn ensues.

John didn't make a single self-deprecating remark about her own weight as Sherlock carried her down the hall. She didn’t offer a single protest as Sherlock laid her in the middle of the bed. She watched in silence as Sherlock divested herself of boots and blouse and trousers.

This place, this space between them was haven from fear and doubt, from storms, real and imagined. This was, quite simply. love. And John knew it was love because she knew her own heart and Sherlock’s, too, as the sentiment was written all over Sherlock’s face as she crawled towards John.

John propped herself up on her elbows as Sherlock parted the two sides of her dressing gown. This Sunday, like most, John was her usual lazy-day kit of athletic bra and pyjama trousers and pants.

Sherlock lifted her head, aiming her puckered lips at John’s smile.

They kissed the way John most loved to kiss. Slow. Wet. Each conveying want and need and love with every brush of lips against lips. They kissed as if they had all the time in the world, which they did, at least today.

Sherlock dropped her head to lick and nuzzle at John’s neck. John smiled and closed her eyes and could not resist whispering,

“My girl.”

“Writing love letters, John, it’s positively Victorian.”

“What can I say? I am old-fashioned gal.”

“You’re _my_ old-fashioned girl.”

“Gaslit streets? Hansom cabs? I can see it.”

“We’d have to be men.”

“Would you believe that I can see that, too?”

Sherlock smirked. “What a vivid imagination you have, John. Any century, any form as long as we find each other, but may I offer my appreciation for your current incarnation?” She pressed her lips to centre of John’s bra.

“You may,” said John magnanimously. She slipped her arms out of her dressing gown and peeled off the bra.

Sherlock nuzzled between and beneath John’s breasts. John stroked her head, then felt Sherlock’s wet lips pressed her skin.

There was a question in the kiss.

More?

John shook her head.

Sherlock nuzzled John’s belly, but John eased her up and rolled onto her stomach. “None of that or I won’t be able to—“

“I love you, John,” said Sherlock plainly as John settled her lower body atop a pillow and Sherlock settled herself atop John.

“I know,” said John. “But love me after you fuck me.”

John heard the smirk in her reply.

“Gladly.”

With Sherlock’s help, John tugged down her pants and trousers. Then she began to rut to Sherlock’s gravelly voice in her ear.

“And after I fuck you and love you, I shall take the suggestion offered by so many and fuck myself.”

John giggled. “Sherlock, if you make me laugh, I’ll might not be able to—“

“No matter,” said Sherlock and the matter-of-fact sincerity in her voice made John love her more, “either way, you’re in for an evening of pleasure, John Watson.”

John rut hard at the promise in Sherlock’s words.

“Sherlock!”

The sweetness burst inside John and she reveled in it, burying her face in a second pillow.

“Sherlock?”

“Anything John.”

“Lay on me.”

“I am, love.”

John’s breath caught at the endearment. Then she said,

“On my side. Like a jaguar on a tree.”

Sherlock laughed and draped herself atop John’s left side.

“I like your weight on me,” John explained. “It’s oddly grounding. Reassuring. Uncomfortable?”

“No. Especially this side.” Sherlock began to lick at John’s scar.

John smiled and sighed.

“I love you, Sherlock. I missed you, too.”

Sherlock kissed John’s cheek. “I know, John. It’s all in the letter."


	23. Religion or Priest (Gen. Case hijinks. 221b.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock in a cassock, once again. 221b. No porn. Just case hijinks.

“Is this seat taken?”

John started.

“Lestrade!”

Lestrade smiled. John gestured for her to take the spot on the pew.

“I didn’t know that you were…” began John.

“Yes, well, lapsed. Very lapsed, but, you know…”

“Yeah, of course. Wow. Have you been here before?”

“No, actually. I was just in the neighbourhood and felt the urge, you know, like you do.”

“Sure, sure. Yeah, this is my first time here, too, but it’s nice.”

“Yes, I thought so, too. Lovely.”

The music sounded.

“Well, here we go,” said Lestrade as everyone stood.

* * *

“My lost lambs,” said a soft voice.

John and Lestrade’s heads whipped ‘round to the pew behind them.

“Father?”

“Sherlock!”

“Wait, Sherlock? Wow. You really are a master of dis—”

“Really? She looks like something out of a Fellini film!”

The venerable Italian priest gently shushed them while throwing venerable Italian daggers at them from grey eyes.

John whispered, “You’re wrong, Sherlock. There’s nothing going on here.”

“Oh, you’re doing her dirty work, too?” said Lestrade. “Yeah, I didn’t notice anything suspicious either.”

“Unless you count too watered wine as suspicious,” added John.

The priest looked at Lestrade with one furry inquiring eyebrow raised.

Lestrade met the steely gaze and nodded. “Yeah, it was watered,” she said.

The priest scurried away, crying out, “I’ve got him! God bless!”


	24. Coitus Interruptus. (PWP. fem!Johnlock & fem!Mystrade. Priest roleplay.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone celebrates after the case. PWP. fem!Johnlock (Priest roleplay). fem!Mystrade (brief).

“I hope Lestrade and her team track down the accomplices,” said John.

“They will,” said Sherlock.

“Surprised you let her take the credit.”

“I play the game for the game’s sake, John. You should know that by now.”

“And here I thought it was because you like playing dress-up.”

Sherlock smirked. “That, too,” she admitted, then sat down at the desk, which, with a set of trifold mirrors and mounds of sponges, jars of cream, bottles of oil, boxes of tissues and related accoutrement, had been temporarily transformed into a theatrical dressing room table, post-performance.

“I’m surprised you didn’t stop by one of your bolt-holes to change back into your mild-mannered alter ego,” said John. “It’s a risk returning to your own abode in character, isn’t it?”

“Padre Pietro can’t be seen in London anytime soon after tonight’s display of athleticism and sacrilege. He will be exiled to the Continent—or maybe a nice little cave in the Himalayas.”

Sherlock met John’s gaze in the mirror. Her furry eyebrows wiggled as she deftly unbuttoned the top buttons of the cassock and removed the clerical collar with one hand.

John smiled and crossed her arms over her chest. “Pity he’s going to be defrocked. I was beginning to like him.”

“Oh, yes?” said Sherlock as she painstakingly removed her black woolly beard.

“The rugby tackle ‘cross the altar was very impressive.”

“The spirit moves in mysterious ways, my lost lamb.” Sherlock rid herself of the last bits of dark fuzz and swiveled ‘round to face John. She looked up and asked,

“Feeling penitent?”

They stared at each other for a long moment, then John said,

“I am, actually.”

“Then sit here,” Sherlock patted her thigh, “and unburden yourself, my dear—unless it’s about that wretched Captain Basil!”

“No,” said John. “It’s actually about my flatmate.”

“Ah, yes. I believe you mentioned something about her sterling qualities.”

“I believe that was you, Padre, but she is gorgeous.”

“Hmm.”

John toyed with one of the buttons on the cassock. “Sometimes I wake up in the morning thinking of her. Wicked thoughts, Padre.”

“Spare no detail, my lost lamb.”

“I think of her in a skirt. I run my hand under it, and she’s not wearing any knickers.”

“Oh, naughty girl.”

“Her or me, Padre?”

“Both. What next?”

“I grab her arse, then I play with her clit. She soaks my hand as I tease the folds of her cunt.”

“Ah, she encourages your attentions, does she?”

“She moans. I get wet, too. I want her to touch me.”

“Where do you want her to touch you, my dear? Show, Padre.”

John unfastened and unzipped her trousers. Then she guided Sherlock’s hand between trousers and pants.

Sherlock slowly rubbed John’s mons atop the cotton. “Right there, my lamb? Right there is where you need to be touched?”

“Yes, Padre,” breathed John as her hips rolled into Sherlock’s touch.

Sherlock’s hand dipped lower and cupped John’s cunt. “You are getting wet, my dear.”

John whimpered.

Sherlock returned her hand to John’s mons and resumed her slow circular stroking. “Is that all you need, my lamb?”

John shook her head.

“What else, my dear? Don’t be shy. Tell Padre where you need to be touched.”

John tore off her jumper. “Here, Padre.” She touched the cup of her bra.

“Why don’t you sit like this, my lamb,” Sherlock eased John onto her lap, so that John was straddling her, but facing away, “that way Padre can give you exactly what you need.”

John groaned when Sherlock’s hand sank once more in her trousers. She closed her eyes and raised her arm behind her as Sherlock’s other hand snaked ‘round to gently fondle her silk-covered breast.

“I need to be petted, Padre,” moaned John. “Just like that. I’m aching for it.” She turned her head and Sherlock kissed her lips.

“Like this?” said Sherlock. “Or like this?” She pushed her hand beneath the bra and squeezed John’s bare breast.

John arched her back and cried out, “Padre, like that! Oh, even better!”

Sherlock massaged John’s breast a bit harder, her thumb flicking ‘cross her nipple. “This is how a good shepherd tends to his sweet lamb.”

For a few long minutes, Sherlock caressed and John moaned quietly.

Then John reached behind herself and unfastened her bra, letting it fall to the floor. She leaned back against Sherlock and sighed, “Oh, Padre, you understand.”

“Perfectly.”

Sherlock withdrew her hand from John’s mons, and John mewled in protest.

Sherlock shushed her. Then she switched her hands’ positions and began kneading John’s other breast.

“Oh,” breathed John in realisation. “Thank you, Padre.”

“Mm. Look.”

John watched, mesmerised as Sherlock circled her nipple with wet thumb and index finger. Then Sherlock whispered,

“There’s holier water, my lamb.”

“Yes,” said John. She stood and removed the rest of her clothing, then sat back down on Sherlock’s lap.

“Like Eden, Padre?” she asked as she spread her legs.

“Very much like paradise, my dear,” said Sherlock, her voice thick.

Sherlock dipped two fingers of each hand into John’s cunt. Then she smeared the wetness on John’s nipples, flicking and rubbing the buds until they pebbled.

“Padre,” panted John, arching once more into Sherlock’s ministrations. “I need to confess.”

“Divest yourself of your sinful thoughts, my lamb, as you’ve so beautifully divested yourself of your clothing.”

John twisted in Sherlock’s lap. “I need…”

“Show, Padre.”

John pushed her nipple between Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock suckled greedily at one breast and then the other. Then she licked each with a wide tongue.

“Yes, that’s what I need. How did you know, Padre?”

“Divine inspiration. Why don’t you make a good act of contrition and rut on Padre?”

John’s words tumbled out as her nude body bounced and rocked against Sherlock’s.

“Oh, I’m heartily sorry, Padre. Sorry for being such a whore for my flatmate. I want her to suckle my tits and nuzzle my clit. I want her to walk around all day with no knickers and tease me ‘til I beg to eat her cunt; then she makes me eat her out in an alley or in front of a window where anyone might see us. I want her to wake me, naked and begging me to fuck her. I want her to show me how wet she is and make me show her how wet I am. I want her to tie me to the bed and use me all day as her own personal fuck toy.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Padre?”

“Have mercy on your wanton little soul, my lost lamb,” said Sherlock as she bit the side of John’s neck.

“Fuck!” grunted John softly as she came. Her hips stilled. “Sherlock?”

“Anything.”

“Lick me.”

“God, yes.”

John moved to the edge of the desk, sending jars and bottles spilling to the floor. She opened her legs and Sherlock moved her chair between them. John scooted to the very edge and lifted her hips to Sherlock’s mouth. Then she reached down and spread her folds.

They both groaned as Sherlock lapped.

“I want a long, thorough penance, Padre,” said John, petting Sherlock’s still-greased hair and tugging gently on the two caterpillar-like eyebrows she’d not yet removed. “One I make at your exquisite altar.”

Sherlock bit John’s inner thigh. “Yes,” she growled.

* * *

Beneath the cassock, Sherlock was now naked from the waist down. John ducked beneath the black fabric and wasted no time in latching her mouth to Sherlock’s cunt. The chair creaked as Sherlock bucked into John.

“Ten Hail Mary’s, my lamb,” breathed Sherlock as John tongue-fucked her.

“SHERLOCK, WE GOT ‘EM! OH, SHIT! NEVERMIND! BYE!”

“Lestrade?” asked John.

“Should learn to knock. I believe that was only two of the ten and on second thought, my dear, perhaps you’d best do fifty.”

“Yes, Padre.”

* * *

“…so Padre Pietro, patron saint of flying squirrels, dives across the altar. Chaos ensues We catch Wilson. The other two bolted, but we get them later that night.”

“Congratulations, my dear. Well done.”

“Then, and you may need to bleach your brain after this, I pop ‘round Baker Street to give them the good news and unfortunately catch Padre Pietro—still in his cassock, mind you—getting a bit of the holiest of holies from a naked John.”

Mycroft grimaced.

“Yeah,” said Lestrade. “My thought exactly. Anyway, how was your week?”

“Not as exciting or as disturbing as yours, even though I was on the other side of the globe for most it. I did bring you back a treat.”

“Oh, Mycroft! You are spoiling me now!”

“A tiny one!” protested Mycroft. “And you just put away a very nasty fellow. Really, His Holiness himself may pat you on the back for this one, my dear. So why not celebrate? She produced a small box.

Lestrade smiled. “Chocolates?”

Mycroft nodded.

Lestrade hummed, then dropped her voice, “Feed them to me on your lap?”

“I’d be delighted. Come here.”

BEEP! BEEP!

“Oh, fuck! Really?” cried Lestrade. “Me, not you, so it isn’t Sherlock, thank God.” Lestrade fumbled for her phone. “Chief Inspector,” she read before putting the phone to her ear. “Lestrade.”

Mycroft raised an inquiring eyebrow as Lestrade listened.

When the call was over Lestrade said, “You’re not going to believe this.”

“Doubtful. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast,” said Mycroft with a smirk.

Lestrade laughed, then said, “His Holiness’s in town and he does want to pat us on the back for catching Wilson and his gang.”

“Oh, well done!” said Mycroft.

“Yeah, I just hope he doesn’t ask me about Padre Pietro!”

 


	25. Five Senses. (fem!Mystrade. Fluff. 221b. Sunday breakfast. Rating: Teen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunday breakfast. fem!Mystrade. 221b. fluff. Rating: Teen.

“Christ, is there anything better than this?” mused Lestrade from the doorway. “Sunday morning. The smell of coffee and bacon and these lovely flowers.” She strode into the room and bent to smell the bouquet of pink roses on the table. “Oh, peaches!”

“Of the non-tinned variety,” said Mycroft as she slid eggs from skillet to plates.

Lestrade took up a whole peach and rubbed the soft fuzz against her cheek. “Waking up in soft sheets. The pan sizzling. Bedroom slippers shuffling. The cook’s charming humming. The sight of you in an apron is worth the price of admission alone, Mycroft.”

Mycroft grinned. “We both worked up considerable appetites last night.”

“Oh, you are smug one, aren’t you?”

Mycroft laughed and shrugged. “Perhaps,” she said coyly. “Grilled tomatoes?”

“Yes, please.”

Mycroft’s knife quickly slid through the beefy red flesh, which gave off the fragrance of a warm summer day and hissed angrily as it hit the grill pan.

Soon, the tomatoes joined the eggs on plates.

Then coffee was being poured into mugs. Spoons clattered and clinked.

“First sip is always the best, no?” said Lestrade. “Warm and bitter and sweet. This’s meant to be savoured, enjoyed, not just gulped for the caffeine.” She put the mug to her lips and sipped and sighed. “There’s no place else I’d rather be."


	26. Voyeurism. (fem!Mycroft. Webcam sex.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade & the webcam. fem!Mystrade.

It started as most things did: quite casually and by accident.

“What’s on the agenda for this evening, my dear?”

“Watching a film,” said Lestrade. “Is it still night wherever you are?”

“Barely.”

“Working?”

“Always.”

“Pity. We could’ve watched together. Half a world apart, but, you know. On second thought, maybe not, you don’t much care for aliens.”

“I’d rather watch you,” Mycroft remarked dryly.

Lestrade laughed. Then she tilted her head as if considering the thought. “Would you? Like to watch me, that is?”

Mycroft was a watcher by nature and by training. She respected Lestrade’s privacy, personal and professional, but the offer, now on the table, was too tempting to resist.

“Yes,” she said.

“All right. I’ll set up the computer. Though you might just get me eating popcorn and nodding off.”

“No matter,” said Mycroft, trying valiantly to keep the thrill out of her voice. “I’ve quite a bit of work to finish before dawn.”

Oh, she was beautiful.

Every so often she would look at the web-camera and smile, but mostly her attention was on the screen. She took a break, then returned in her dressing gown.

“Still there?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Mycroft.

“I thought I’d give you something a bit more entertaining.” She sat back on the sofa and opened her dressing gown, then she eased one strap of her nightgown off her shoulder and let her heavy breast spill out. She laid down on her side and began to fondle her breast.

“Okay?” she asked.

“An understatement,” said Mycroft, staring.

“Are you, uh, enjoying this, physically?” She blushed quite beautifully.

“Yes,” Mycroft admitted. “A bit.”

She smiled, then sighed “I’m too tired to do anything more right now, but,” she looked at the computer and bit her lip, “if later, or some other time, I feel like being more entertaining?”

“Text me.”

She blushed again. “What in heavens do I say? I’m not a teenager.”

Mycroft shrugged. Her gaze flit ‘round the hotel room and lighted on the empty carton beside her. “Say you’re having take-out.”

Lestrade laughed. “Yeah, I can do that.”

* * *

**Curry? GL**

Mycroft checked the time. It was 3 am in London. She quickly closed the open file and tapped her phone.

**Yes. MH**

“My.”

Oh, what a pretty moan, thick and full of want.

As Mycroft shifted to the bed with her personal laptop, a pair of breasts half-covered in green silk filled the screen.

“My?” The moan was more urgent. Mycroft’s body stirred.

“Hello, gorgeous. Can’t sleep?”

Lestrade grunted. “I was sleeping. Then I wanted…”

Two hands gripped the breasts on the screen.

“…I wanted you to fuck me, Mycroft. So much. Pervy, no?”

“Not at all,” reassured Mycroft. “Lean back. Let me see.”

The she was sitting against the headboard of the bed, knees bent, legs splayed, green silk bunched at the waist, her damp pubic hair on display.

“You are quite wet, my dear.”

“Are you?” moaned Lestrade as she grabbed her breast with one hand and reached for the vibrator on the bedside table with the other.

Mycroft considered the question, then replied truthfully. “Yes, a bit. I’ll join you, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, fuck. You’re…to me…?”

“Who else, my dear? Unless you’d rather I lie back and think of England?”

Lestrade laughed loudly. Then she began to tease her clit and folds with the tip of the buzzing wand. “I wish you were here,” she said. “Sorry. I shouldn’t whine or nag. You’ve your duty.”

“No apology necessary. Your sentiment is shared. And I assure you, in one week’s time, your location will be my priority stop upon my return. I’ll sweep you up in the car,” Letrade smiled, “and be eating you out by the first street light.”

“Oh, God. Your tongue, My. So much better than this.” Lestrade pushed the vibrator inside herself. She began to thrust as the fingers of her other hand found her clit.

Mycroft watched and forgot to breathe. “Better?” she finally croaked.

“Like you don’t know. You spoil me in so many ways, Mycroft.”

Mycroft felt a surge of pride, irrational, of course, but heady. “I enjoy taking care of you.”

“God, is that what the kids call it when you orgasm so hard your eyes roll back into your head?”

It was Mycroft’s turn to laugh.

Lestrade smiled. “I love you, Mycroft. I think if I had a choice of turning you on or making you laugh, I’d make you laugh all day long.”

“Don’t distract me, my dear. I’m concentrating,” admonished Mycroft, but her eyes were threatening to tear and she had a lump in her throat. “Perhaps not tonight, for me, at least.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Still want to watch?”

“Always. It’s my nature.”

With the vibrator still humming inside her, Lestrade fell forward and rut against the duvet.

“My, My, My,” she cried. Then she collapsed prone of the bed, turned onto her side, reached down and pulled the vibrator. “Yeah, that’s what I needed. I’ll sleep like a baby now.”

Mycroft smiled at the erotic tableau of her nude, sated form spread upside down on the bed, legs curled, arms wide, contented smile on her lips.

“So will I,” said Mycroft.

She cracked one eye. “You sleep?”

“On occasion. Well, sweet dreams, gorgeous. And, uh, you, too.”

“I know, Mycroft. There’s no one else I want watching—or watching over—me.”


	27. Lingerie, heels, dress. 221b. No smut.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John stretches out Sherlock's new high-heels. 221b. No smut.
> 
> [These](http://us.jimmychoo.com/en/collections/womens-edits/the-cinderella-edit/ari/crystal-covered-pointy-toe-pumps--ARISXU001721.html) are the shoes.

“John, what are you doing?!”

John started and wobbled and if she hadn’t grabbed the back of the kitchen chair, she would have surely toppled to the floor.

The most alarming bit wasn’t that John had heard Sherlock’s return, it was the question. Sherlock never, ever asked what John was doing. She always knew what John was doing, what everyone was doing.

John turned. Sherlock stood in the middle of the sitting room, mouth open, eyebrows furrowed.

John looked down. “I was stretching out your new shoes for you. Sparkly, aren’t they?” She lifted one foot, then the other. “How you manage chase down criminals in such pointy heels, I’ll never know.”

“Why?!”

John started again and gripped the chair tighter. The knot in her chest grew. Sherlock never, ever asked ‘why.’ She always knew ‘why,’ or at least the why’s that mattered to her.

“It was in a magazine. Number 26 of ‘31 Nice Things to Do for Your Girlfriend.’”

Sherlock shook her head.

Bootsteps on the stairs. A shout.

“Sherlock!”

Lestrade appeared. She looked from Sherlock to John. She laughed, then gasped.

“Those are not my shoes, John,” said Sherlock slowly.

“Bloody hell they’re not. They’re evidence. Stolen merchandise. And a motive for murder.”

“Oh, God!” John squeaked.

“They’re worth four thousand pounds and to _literally_ die for, beautiful.”


	28. Best and Worst. (221bs. No smut.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the worst days are the best days. 221b x 3. No smut. fem!Mycroft. fem!Johnlock.

Mycroft scrolled through the headlines once more.

What had Dickens called them? The best of days, the worst of day. Yes, that was about right.

Mycroft knew the forest, she studied the forest, of course, but she preferred to concentrate her thinking and her efforts on the trees, the few trees that were within her power to fell.

But these days, the forest was abysmal. So much misery and pain and hate writ large. And the trees were so many, far too many, or so it seemed. Had it always been this way? Dickens suggested yes.

Maybe she was just getting old.

Nonsense!

She was not ready to contemplate retirement, though dying in the civil servant saddle, the end that she always had tacitly imagined for herself, no longer held appeal.

Maybe she was just tired.

Well, there were remedies for that.

A few more reports to complete. A few more phone calls to make. A few more loose ends to tie up or cauterise, depending upon the circumstances.

Mycroft scrolled through the headlines once more and winced.

Best and worst.

Worst and best.

Then a head popped in the door.

“Ma’am?”

His name was not Anthea—except in her head.

“Go. Have fun on your holiday.”

“But…”

“Respectfully speaking, ma’am, the shite will still be here when you get back.”

* * *

Today was the best day.

Today she abandoned crime and misery and paperwork and gossip and career politics and world’s most annoying consulting detective.

Today she boarded an airplane and went someplace warm and sunny.

And did nothing.

For ten whole days.

She could almost hear a heavenly chorus of angels break into song.

Hallelujah!

For ten whole days, she could wear what she wanted, drink as much as she wanted, eat as much as she wanted, fuck as much as she wanted—well, as much as Mycroft wanted, but that was rarely a limiting factor.

It was too good, though.

It wasn’t going to happen.

Something was going to happen in the world, some catastrophe, and Mycroft would be called away and the holiday cancelled.

She scrolled through the headlines and winced. Any one of these horrible events could prompt someone in very high office to request Mycroft’s assistance urgently and immediately.

And Mycroft would offer a thousand apologies, but she’d have to go.

That was the job.

Lestrade knew that.

All the cancelled dinners. All the phone calls, the phone sex, the phone everything because she wasn’t _there_.

Yes, it was the best day, but the lump in Lestrade’s throat would not disappear.

_Knock, knock!_

Oh, God. She’s early. Bad news, bad news…

“Your chariot awaits. Let’s go, beautiful.”

* * *

It was the worst day ever.

First, her porcine sister had spirited away her primary access to police cases and the other Detective Inspectors, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, were actively avoiding her—even Hopkins!

Second, there was nothing higher than a 2 on the blogs, hers or John’s.

Third, she’d gone to the morgue to find something to dissect, and whose fault was it—not hers, certainly!—that the body that interested her the most was not actually dead?

So for her pains, she’d got blood all over her suit—and coat!—and summarily thrown out of the morgue, then escorted out of Barts entirely under threat of arrest for assault!

The charge would never stick, naturally, but Mycroft was on holiday. She’d be tempted to let Sherlock stew out of spite.

So, there she was, covered in blood and, of course, none of the cabs would take her, so she had to walk back to Baker Street or face a worse fate: the tube.

No, thank you.

If John wasn’t home, it’d be the worst fucking day ever, well, in a very long time, well, in recent memory.

Sherlock thumped up the stairs.

“John!”

Oh, it was the best day ever!

John! In heels! And lingerie!

And Lestrade was such a liar! She _had_ found something!

“Hello, beautiful.”

 

 


	29. Begging. No smut. (John & Lestrade.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade persuades John to go shopping. No smut.
> 
> This chapter takes place before Chapter 28, but after Chapter 27 (the stretching-out-the-shoes chapter)

_**Earlier...** _

 

“Yeah, I’m not doing that again. I made an arse out of myself,” said John. She sipped her pint, her eyes fixed on the match on the wide-screen telly in the corner.

“Wait,” said Lestrade, choking and slamming down her own pint so hard that it sloshed over onto the bar. “You’re telling me that Sherlock Holmes begged—“

“She did not beg. She asked me humbly and earnestly.”

“Which I believe is the dictionary definition of begging, but okay. She asked you—“

“Humbly and earnestly.”

“Humbly and earnestly, to stretch out a pair of new shoes again in return for anything and you said—?”

“I’d think about it.”

Lestrade huffed. “Will you do it for me? Or for justice? I got a trio of cold cases that need solving. Does she even _have_ a new pair of shoes?”

“She just ordered some. Black. Could poke a man’s eye out with the nutty heel, which believe me, Sherlock is more than willing to do.”

“I don’t know. Might be fun. You could get a little outfit. Do a little dance. Make a night of it. Then, get the bag of toes binned, at least one load of laundry done, and maybe convince her to return the half a dozen of my badges that she’s stolen.”

“’Get a little outfit?!’ You’re mad. They don’t make ‘little outfits’ for people shaped like me.”

Lestrade laughed. “They make them for people shaped like me, Doctor. They make them for people shaped like you.”

John turned and stared. “You don’t—?”

“Why not?” said Lestrade defensively.

“No, I don’t mean that. I mean, I thought you were like me, you know, serviceable underpants. Pants that won us the war!”

“Nope.”

“But,” John looked down at Lestrade’s bulky drab-coloured suit.

“This’s for work, John, so that the knobs will take me seriously.” She pulled her dark blouse aside to reveal a pink strap. “Mycroft’s a fan of lingerie. Bet Sherlock is, too.”

“For herself, maybe, but wait, Mycroft?!”

“Who do you think buys me the good stuff?”

“Well…”

“Want to go shopping?”

John shuddered. “Does anyone ever _want_ to go shopping?”

“Just this once. For justice and a toe-free fridge?”

John frowned. “After the game. And I’m going to need at least one whiskey chaser. Maybe two."

Lestrade signaled to the barman as she texted beneath the bar.

**You owe me three cases. GL**

**Understood. SH**

 

 


	30. Accidental Stimulation. (fem!Johnlock & fem!Mystrade. PWP.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock & John on the rug. Mycroft & Lestrade on holiday. PWP.

“Hello, beautiful,” said Sherlock.

And she was, Sherlock’s fantasy come to life, her best friend, wrapped in a short black silk slip and teetering on matching stiletto pumps.

John’s eyes raked up and down Sherlock’s blood-splattered clothes.

“John, I can explain—“ began Sherlock.

John raised a hand.

“Molly texted. You’ve ten minutes to be clean and in that chair.”

Sherlock was done in seven.

But she was not in the chair, she was on the hearthrug, head resting on her folded hands, in her dressing gown, with pinned wet hair, watching John walk slowly, and—yes, gracelessly, but what cared Sherlock for grace?—back and forth.

“You like it. You get off on it,” said John.

“Yes,” Sherlock admitted. Suddenly, she sprang into her armchair.

John sighed as she settled herself in Sherlock’s lap. “Good, less chance of twisting an ankle.”

“No chance at all, John.”

John was facing away from Sherlock, straddling her closed legs. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on Sherlock’s knees. She lifted her arse in the air and then began to roll her hips.

“John,” groaned Sherlock, flipping up the hem of the slip to reveal black silk knickers.

“I don’t know how you wear this kind of stuff every day, Sherlock. It’s too stimulating. I nearly brought myself off twice by accident just getting into the thing!”

“Mm. You get used to it.” Sherlock ran a hand between John’s legs.

She was soaked.

“You see?” said John.

“Hmm.”

Sherlock ran her hands over John’s arse, possessively, worshipfully, lustfully, as John swayed and undulated and wriggled.

“Lestrade suggested I ‘do a little dance.” John huffed. “This is the best I can do without a trip to the A & E. Apologies for the lack of music.”

“Who says there’s no music?” asked Sherlock.

John looked over her shoulder. “Are you hearing something that I’m not, gorgeous?”

“There’s hearing,” said Sherlock with a minute shrug, “and there’s composing.”

“Oh, Sherlock.”

They continued in silence until John said,

“Do you think,” the strain in her voice, the undertone of plea stoked Sherlock’s want, “there’s a chance we could…?”

Sherlock quickly parted the sides of her dressing gown, yanked down John’s knickers, positioning her bare arse so that it ground into her own mons.

John ground hard, beautifully, gorgeously hard. Then she bounced as if she were riding Sherlock’s cock and Sherlock thrust as if she were impaling her.

“Oh, God, Sherlock, are you…?”

“Yes.”

So very close. If John just moved a little bit to the…

“John!”

“Sherlock!”

So that was the scent of them, together.

John twisted in Sherlock’s lap. At once, Sherlock buried her face in the black silk V, then covered a nipple with her mouth, suckling as John whispered and rut anew,

“Pick out a pretty thing for me, Sherlock. I’ll wear it. Something nice. Or tat, then you can tear off me.”

“Oh, John,” Sherlock moaned around the nipple.

“I’m coming again, Sherlock. Fuck, I never come twice…fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Sherlock ripped the straps of the slip down, pinning John’s arms by her side, and latched back onto the bare nipple, sucking hard.

“Oh!” cried John. “I’m such a little whore.”

“Never,” swore Sherlock as she shifted to the other nipple. “You’re mine.”

Sherlock felt the shudder go through John and decided to press her fortune,

“I want to lick you clean, John.”

“Oh, God, yes, now, please.”

At John’s sigh, a wholly irrational, illogical surge of feral pride warmed Sherlock. She wasted no time, rolling John onto the rug, tearing off her knickers—to a delightful peal of laughter, yes, Sherlock would be investing in some tat, and quite soon, thank you very much. And then Sherlock's face was buried between John’s legs, and yes, John was curling her legs around Sherlock’s shoulders and lifting her hips, and…

“And, oh, God, you’re inside me, your tongue’s inside, fuck, yes, tongue-fucking, love, yours, love, I’m yours, Sherlock, forever and always…”

* * *

Forever and always.

John might wake a third time, begging, demanding to fuck.

But for the moment, she was resting in Sherlock’s arms and Sherlock was thinking about one—of the many things—she’d said.

I’m yours, Sherlock, forever and always.

* * *

The third time Mycroft made the face, Lestrade decided to say something.

“Mycroft, I know it’s difficult to leave work behind. Your brain is always churning. We just unpacked. If there’s something bothering you or if you need to check on something…”

Mycroft closed her eyes and grimaced. Then she was still, preternaturally still, and Lestrade’s gut hardened.

You didn’t take someone to a tropical paradise, sit naked in a private whirlpool spa, just to break up with them, did you? Did you?

That face.

Wait.

Lestrade knew that face.

But that was impossible. Nevertheless, what did Spock always say?

“Mycroft? Did you just come?!”

“The jets of water, my dear, are unfortunately positioned.”

Lestrade couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing.

Mycroft cracked an eye and managed a smile.

“Well, move over, silly.”

“I did not want to interrupt you.”

Lestrade rolled her eyes. “Move. Over. How about all the way over here?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Mycroft shifted to the far end of the bench and reached for Lestrade.

Lestrade floated into her lap. “Something to consider for later?”

Mycroft tilted her head. “Perhaps.”

“I believe there are some clever nozzles on the shower, too.”

“Are there now?” teased Mycroft. She kissed Lestrade softly and kept on kissing her while two of her fingers slipped inside Lestrade’s cunt.

“Oh, God. Ten days of fucking. I’ll die.”

“Nonsense,” said Mycroft as her fingers began to thrust and her thumb toyed with Lestrade’s clit. She cupped one of Lestrade’s breasts, then bent to lick the nipple. “Well, little deaths, perhaps.”

“On the beach…in the shower…on every surface of this lovely cottage…the toys…your hands—“

“My tongue, too.”

“Oh, God, My, I love you, love you, forever and always.”

Mycroft nuzzled Lestrade’s neck as she came.

“Yes, my dear, forever and always.”


	31. Laughter. (fem!Johnlock & fem!Mystrade. Fluff.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All's well that ends well for our two couples. Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for everyone who's taken this journey with me! I've enjoyed spending time with these ladies. I hope you have, too.

“It wasn’t that funny, John.”

“Yes, it was. It’s the funniest thing I’ve seen in a long time. Those sheep did not care for your deductions, Sherlock. In fact, I think they tarried in the road just to spite them.”

“Idiots.”

“Are you going to tell me what’s in Sussex? Lestrade’s still on holiday so, not a police matter…”

“Stop deducing, my lost lamb.”

“Bit off the beaten path, as they say. Bet you could get your throat cut out here and nobody’d be the wiser for weeks. But, wow! What a great view of the Channel! Chalk cliffs are lovely.”

“Here.” Sherlock brought the jeep to a halt in front of a cottage.

* * *

“Anytime, Sherlock,” said John as they walked through the empty rooms.

Sherlock disappeared into a bedroom. John found her nodding.

“Scene of the crime?”

“Hope not. Might be our bedroom.”

John stared.

“It’s an investment for a retirement that I hope you’ll share with me. Forever and always, John. What do you say?” She pulled out a rolled document. “Half yours.”

John smiled and nodded.

“Yes?”

“Yeah, you git.”

She launched herself into Sherlock’s arms.

“I love you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock swung her round, waltzing and humming.

“What’s that?”

“Yours.”

“The one you were composing the other night?”

“The same. Now, let me tell you about the bees.”

* * *

“…and a garden, if you’d like.”

“Roses? Marrows? No, tomatoes!”

“Whatever you desire. Um, John, we’ve never discussed, uh, formalising our, uh, well, you know…”

“Sherlock, are you asking me to marry you or asking me what I think about marrying you? Because if it’s the former, that’s the worst proposal I’ve ever heard, so the answer is ‘no.’ But if it’s the latter…”

“It is!”

John shrugged. “I want to spend the rest of my days with you, Sherlock. If there are practical, forgive me, but unromantic reasons for getting married, then, yes. If it makes sense legally, financially, etcetera, but as far as sentiment…” John shrugged again. “But if it matters to you, it matters to me.

“It doesn’t, John, matter to me, that is. Your heart is all I desire, but I can see your point. One day, it might proffer advantages.”

“But I don’t want to be anyone’s wife. Or husband, for that matter. I just want to be your John.”

Sherlock kissed the top of John’s head and curled her arms tighter ‘round her. “Done. And I only ask because…”

“Oh, did you deduce it? Fuck! I thought she’d kept it a secret!”

“Mycroft’s my sister, I know when she’s going to propose…”

“ _Lestrade’s_ going to propose…”

They stared at each other, then John sighed,

“Bugger.”

* * *

“Mycroft?”

“A walk on the beach?”

“Sure. Give me a minute.”

* * *

“Oh, the sunset’s lovely.”

“Yes, how ‘bout we have a seat and watch together?”

“Perfect!”

“Tide’s coming in.”

“Uh, yes, yes, it is.”

“My dear, I love you.”

“Wow.”

“I hope it’s not a surprise.”

“It’s a surprise to hear you say it.”

“I have been practising.”

“I love you, too, Mycroft, and I want more moments like this, beautiful moments, and silly moments and lovely moments—“

“The tide’s rolling in, my dear.”

“Yes, uh, can we wait a minute?””

“Um, do you happen to see something, out there?”

“Uh, looks like some debris? Oh, no. It’s a bottle. Huh. That’s curious.”

“Worth investigating, Detective Inspector?”

“Um, well, okay. Uh, just give me a second.”

“Oh, Mycroft, it’s got my name on it!”

“Imagine that.”

“Oh, Mycroft…”

“I want to spend the rest of our days together, my dear. Would you do the grand honour of becoming…”

“Oh, shit!”

“The ring or the proposal?” squeaked Mycroft.

“I was going to propose, too! I got you a thin gold band, I figured it was the only jewelry you’d ever wear.”

“And?”

“And I hid it under the shell when I went to get the bottle and that bloody crab is running away with it!”

“Like hell he is, the bastard!”

* * *

“I’ve not laughed that much in my life,” said Lestrade.

“I don’t believe I’ve consumed that many crab cakes, either.”

“You’re a bit of a scoundrel, Mycroft Holmes.”

“True, but to the victors go the spoils.” She took Lestrade’s hand in hers. “While that pilfering crustacean proved a most excellent first course, he also cheated us out of our very romantic moment. Where was I? Oh, yes, sunset, message in a bottle, and then I say, ‘Would you do me the grand honour of becoming my lawfully wedded…?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“Wife is good. And the answer is yes. And will you do me the honour of becoming my lawfully wedded…Mycroft?”

Mycroft smiled. “Better, worse, sickness, health, the whole lot, yes. I am happier with you than I ever have been and it will be my joy to spend the rest of my life with you. You understand me better than anyone and love me more than I imagined was possible.”

“You don’t just see the world, Mycroft, you see me. And I feel cherished every day—even when you’re half-way around the world.”

“It will not be easy. Jobs. Schedules. Danger. Sherlock.”

Mycroft made a face at the last. Lestrade rolled her eyes, then smiled.

“When have our lives ever been easy? We'll figure it out together. Forever and always. With you, my…”

“…beloved.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
